TALES    OF  AN    ENGINEER 


WITH 


RHYMES    OF   THE    RAIL 


TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


WITH 


of  tije  ISail 


BY 

CY    WARMAN 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1896 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


***  These  tales  are  republished,  by  permission,  from 
McClure's  Magazine,  the  Engineering  Magazine,  and 
the  Youth"1  s  Companion.  The  rhymes  are  mostly  from 
the  New  York  Sun. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TO  THE  GREAT  ARMY  OF 


THE    SILENT    HEROES    WHO    STAND   ALONE   AND 

BORE    HOLES     IN     THE     NIGHT    AT    THE 

RATE   OF  A   MILE   A    MINUTE, 

THESE    TALES  ARE  DEDICATED. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


756 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  ON  THE  ENGINE  OF 

A  "FLYER" 3 

THE  DEATH  RUN 49 

FLYING  THROUGH  FLAMES 65 

A  NOVEL  BATTLE 73 

ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER 89 

ON  AN  IRON  STEED 107 

OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE 125 

THROUGH  THE  DARDANELLES 143 

JAFFA  TO  JERUSALEM 159 

RELATIONS  OF  THE  EMPLOYEE  TO  THE  RAIL 
ROAD      J79 

FROM  THE  CORNFIELD  TO  THE  CAB    ....  199 
RHYMES  OF  THE  RAIL:  — 

The  Flight  of  the  Flyer 213 

From  Budapest  to  Belgrade 215 

At  the  Engineer's  Grave 218 

The  Freight  Train 220 

Chipeta 222 

Our  Heroes 224 


t 


Vlll  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Tramp's  Last  Ride 226 

The  Nellie  Ely 227 

Nobody  Knows 229 

The  Open  Switch 230 

The  Orient  Express 232 

The  Fellows  Up  Ahead 234 

An  Old  Story 236 

Dead 238 

The  Country  Editor 239 

Standing  his  Hand 241 

The  Old  Engineer 243 

When  You  are  Gone 244 

Loch  Ivanhoe 245 


GOD,   WHO  MADE    THE  MAN. 


I  hear  the  whistle  sounding, 
The  moving  air  I  feel ; 

The  train  goes  by  me,  bounding 
O  V/"  throbbing  threads  of  steeL 


My  mind  it  doth  bewilder 

These  wondrous  things  to  scan; 

Awed,  not  by  man,  the  builder, 
But  God,  who  made  the  man. 


£tjou$an&4ptle  Mtoe  on  fyt 
of  a  4i 


A    THOUSAND-MILE    RIDE    ON    THE 
ENGINE    OF    A    "FLYER" 


A  THOUSAND  miles  in  a  night  —  in  one 
sleep,  as  the  Indians  say  —  was  what  I 
wanted  to  do  ;  and  I  wanted  to  do  it  on  a  loco 
motive.  I  searched  some  days  in  vain  for  an 
opportunity.  Then  I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  H. 
Walter  Webb,  third  Vice -President  of  the  New 
York  Central  Railroad,  told  him  my  trouble,  and 
promptly  received  permission  to  ride  the  en 
gine  that  pulled  the  "Exposition  Flyer."  The 
artist  who  was  to  accompany  me  as  promptly 
received  permission  to  occupy  the  attending 
train. 

When,  on  the  afternoon  of  September  the 
26th,  I  went  down  to  take  my  run  out,  one 
hundred  and  one  passengers  were  waiting  in 
the  Grand  Central  Station  with  tickets  for 


TA.LE?   OF  AN  ENGINEER 


Chicago  by  the  "Flyer."  It  was  2.45,  fifteen 
minutes  before  leaving  time.  At  2.55  they  were 
all  aboard.  A  little  ahead  of  my  turn,  I  showed 
the  gate-keeper  an  order  signed  by  the  Super 
intendent  of  Motive  Power,  which  gave  the 
engineer  authority  to  carry  me  on  the  locomo 
tive,  and  passed  to  the  train.  I  found  a  little 
wiry  engineer  standing  right  in  under  the  boiler 
of  the  898,  oiling  her  link  motion. 

A  one-hundred-pound  engineer  and  a  one- 
hundred-ton  locomotive  !  A  little  bird  chas 
ing  an  eagle  across  the  sky  !  Each  seemed  to 
exaggerate  the  other.  How  different  was  this 
mammoth  machine  from  the  mountain  climbers 
I  had  been  used  to  —  built  so  near  the  ground 
that  to  get  under  them  the  engineer  must  lie 
flat  down  and  crawl. 

As  the  great  clock  in  the  despatcher's  office 
pointed  to  2.55  the  driver  began  to  glance  at 
his  watch.  Then  he  climbed  up  into  the  cab, 
exchanged  oil  cans,  climbed  down,  and  walked 
around  the  locomotive,  dropping  a  little  oil  here 
and  there  —  giving  her  a  last  finishing  touch. 
Then  he  put  his  foot  first  against  the  main, 
then  the  parallel  rods,  to  see  if  they  moved 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE 


easily  on  the  pins.  Already  I  had  introduced 
myself  to  the  engineer,  and  was  now  on  the 
engine  making  friends  with  the  fireman.  At 
2.59  we  were  all  in  the  cab.  The  pointer  stood 
at  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  ;  the  fireman 
leaned  out  of  the  window  just  behind  me,  look 
ing  toward  the  rear  of  the  train.  Glancing  over 
at  the  engineer,  I  noticed  that  he  was  looking 
ahead,  and  that  his  left  hand  was  on  the  throttle. 
Just  as  I  looked  back,  the  conductor  threw  up 
his  right  hand,  the  fireman  shouted  "All  right," 
the  throttle  flew  open,  and  the  first  great  ex 
haust  seemed  to  lift  the  roof  from  the  shed. 
The  drivers  are  so  large  —  six  feet  six  —  that 
with  each  exhaust  the  train  moves  forward 
nearly  five  feet,  and  with  each  revolution  we  are 
nineteen  and  one-half  feet  nearer  our  journey's 
end. 

Whatever  of  anxiety  I  might  have  felt  an 
hour  ago  is  gone ;  and  as  the  proud  machine 
sweeps  over  switches,  through  tunnels,  under 
bridges,  and  through  suburban  New  York,  and 
finally  around  to  the  shores  of  the  Hudson,  all 
thought  of  danger  has  vanished,  and  I  know 
that  I  shall  enjoy  the  ride.  Nearly  a  thousand 


TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


miles  of  rails  reach  out  before  us,  but  to  me  the 
way  seems  short.  I  hear  the  click  of  the  latch 
as  the  engineer  cuts  the  reverse-lever  back, 
shortening  the  valve  stroke  and  increasing  the 
speed.  As  often  as  he  does  this  he  opens  the 
throttle  a  little  wider,  until  the  pressure  in  the 
steam-chest  is  almost  equal  to  the  pressure  in 
the  boiler.  Every  time  he  touches  the  throttle 
the  swift  steed  shoots  forward  as  a  smart  road 
ster  responds  to  the  touch  of  the  whip.  When 
the  lever  is  forward  and  the  stroke  is  long,  the 
steam  flows  in  at  one  end  of  the  cylinder,  and 
pushes  the  piston  head  to  the  other  end.  When 
this  exhausts,  another  flow  of  steam  enters  the 
other  end  of  the  cylinder  to  push  the  piston 
back.  The  result  of  this  is  a  continuous  flow 
of  steam  through  the  valves,  and  a  useless  waste 
of  water  and  fuel.  When  the  stroke  is  short, 
the  valve  moves  quickly.  With  an  open  throttle 
the  steam  darts  from  the  steam-chest,  where  the 
pressure  is  high,  to  the  cylinder ;  another  quick 
movement  of  the  valve  closes  the  port,  and  the 
expanding  steam  does  the  rest. 

The  long,  heavy  stroke  is  necessary  only  in 
starting  trains  and  on  heavy  grades. 


THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE 


Absence,  we  are  told,  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder.  The  pain  of  parting  is  all  forgotten  in 
the  joy  of  meeting;  and  now  as  we  begin  to 
swing  round  the  smooth  curves,  all  the  old-time 
love  for  the  locomotive  comes  back  to  me. 
The  world  will  never  know  how  dear  to  the  en 
gineer  is  the  engine.  Julian  Ralph  says,  "A 
woman,  a  deer,  and  a  locomotive."  The  en 
gineer  would  say,  "A  woman,  a  locomotive, 
and  a  deer." 

Again  I  hear  the  click  of  the  latch,  and  a 
glance  at  the  ground  tells  me  that  we  are  mak 
ing  forty  miles  an  hour.  The  scene  is  impress 
ive.  The  many  threads  of  steel  stretching 
away  in  the  twilight ;  the  river  on  one  side, 
on  the  other  a  rock  wall,  and  above  the  wall 
the  vines  and  trees ;  the  gentle  hills  beyond  the 
Hudson  where  the  leaves  are  turning  with  the 
touch  of  time  —  the  end  of  summer  at  the  death 
of  day  ! 

Now  the  people  along  the  line  begin  to  look 
for  us  :  every  one  seems  to  expect  us,  except 
two  Italian  women  who  are  walking  near  the 
wall.  They  hear  the  whistle,  look  back,  and 
see  the  great  engine  bearing  down  upon  them 


8  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

at  a  fearful  rate.  I  glance  at  the  engineer, 
whose  grim  face  wears  a  frown,  and  whose  left 
hand  moves  nervously  to  the  air  valve,  then 
back  to  the  throttle. 

Panic-stricken,  the  women  start  to  run,  but  in 
a  moment  we  dash  by  them.  The  wind  of  the 
train  twists  their  clothes  about  them,  pulls  their 
bonnets  off,  while  their  frightened  faces  are 
whipped  by  their  loosened  hair.  A  step  on  one 
of  the  sleepers  strikes  the  basket  on  the  arm  of 
one  of  the  women,  and  a  stream  of  red  apples 
rolls  along  the  gutter,  drawn  by  the  draught  of 
the  train.  Now  the  smoke  clears  from  the 
stack,  the  engine  begins  to  swing  and  sway  as 
the  speed  increases  to  forty-five  or  fifty  miles 
an  hour.  Here  and  there  an  east-bound  train 
brushes  by  us,  and  now  the  local  which  left  New 
York  ten  minutes  ahead  of  us  is  forced  to  take 
our  smoke.  The  men  in  the  signal  towers, 
which  succeed  one  another  at  every  mile  of  the 
road,  look  for  the  "  Flyer,"  and  each,  I  fancy, 
breathes  easier  when  he  has  seen  the  swift  train 
sweep  by  beneath  him. 

Everything  appears  to  exaggerate  our  speed, 
which  is  now  nearly  a  mile  a  minute.  An  ox- 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE 


team  toiling  up  a  little  hill  serves  to  show  how 
fast  we  go.  As  we  sweep  by  a  long  freight 
train,  west-bound,  it  is  hard  to  tell  whether  it  is 
running  or  standing  still.  In  fact,  we  cannot 
tell  until  we  come  up  to  the  locomotive  and 
hear  one  loud  exhaust,  and  we  are  gone. 

When  the  whistle  sounds,  the  fireman  looks 
ahead,  and  if  the  signals  are  right,  he  shouts  to 
the  engineer.  If  the  road  is  curving  to  the  left, 
it  is  not  always  easy  for  the  engineer  to  see  the 
signal  displayed.  The  fireman  even  tries  the 
water.  Fifteen  years  ago  that  would  have  cost 
him  his  job.  "  You  keep  her  hot ;  I  '11  keep 
her  cool,"  the  engineer  would  have  said  at  that 
time.  And  yet  he  should  be  glad  to  have  some 
one  help  him  watch  the  water,  for  nothing  brings 
such  lasting  scandal  to  a  runner  as  the  burning 
of  an  engine.  He  may  run  by  his  orders,  but 
if  he  drops  his  crown  sheet  he  is  disgraced  for 
life. 

We  are  now  fifty  minutes  out ;  the  throttle 
is  closed.  A  half  mile  ahead  is  the  water 
trough.  When  the  engine  reaches  it,  the  fire 
man  drops  a  spout,  and  in  thirty  seconds  the 
big  track  trough  is  dry.  When  the  tank  is  filled 


IO  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

the  throttle  is  opened,  the  fireman  returns  to 
his  place  at  the  furnace  door,  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  we  are  sailing  along  the  line  as  fast  as 
before.  The  black  smoke  curling  gracefully 
above  the  splendid  train  reminds  me  of  what 
Meredith  said  of  his  sweetheart :  — 

"  Her  flowing  tresses  blown  behind, 
Her  shoulders  in  the  merry  wind." 

We  have  lost  a  minute  or  a  minute  and  a  half 
taking  water,  and  now  we  are  nearing  a  bad 
bridge  —  a  bridge  under  repair,  and  over  which 
the  engineer  has  been  instructed,  by  a  bulletin 
posted  in  the  round  house  at  New  York,  to 
pass  at  ten  miles  an  hour.  We  are  three  min 
utes  late,  when  again  we  get  them  swinging 
round  the  curves  beyond  the  bridge ;  for  it 
must  be  remembered  that  the  Central's  track 
along  the  Hudson  is  far  from  straight,  though 
the  road  bed  is  so  nearly  perfect  that  passengers 
in  the  coaches  do  not  feel  the  curves.  Every 
one  seems  to  know  that  we  are  three  minutes 
late.  The  old  man  with  the  long-handled 
wrench,  tightening  up  the  bolts  in  the  rails,  re 
proaches  the  engineer  with  a  sort  of  "  What 's- 
de-matter-wid-yez?"  expression,  as  we  pass  by. 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  II 

The  man  in  the  next  tower  is  uneasy  till  we  are 
gone. 

We  are  a  hundred  miles  from  New  York  now, 
and  although  I  carry  a  time-card,  I  am  unable 
to  read  the  names  on  the  stations.  Holding 
my  watch  in  my  left  hand,  I  tap  the  case  with 
my  right ;  the  engineer  shakes  his  head  slowly, 
and  holds  up  three  fingers  :  we  are  three  min 
utes  late.  I  cross  over,  take  a  seat  behind 
the  driver,  and,  speaking  loud  at  the  back  of 
his  neck,  express  the  hope  that  we  shall  reach 
Albany  on  time. 

He  says  nothing.  I  cross  back  to  the  other 
side,  and  as  often  as  he  whistles  I  ring  the  bell. 
A  minute  later  he  turns  to  the  fireman  and 
shouts :  "  Look  out  for  her,  Jack,"  at  the 
same  time  pulling  the  throttle  wide  open.  Jack 
knew  his  business  and  proceeded  to  look  out 
for  her.  Taking  the  clinker  hook,  he  levelled 
off  the  fire,  shook  the  grates,  and  closed  the 
furnace  door.  The  black  smoke  rolled  thick 
and  fast  from  her  stack,  then  cleared  away, 
showing  that  she  was  cutting  her  fire  beauti 
fully.  Swinging  the  door  open,  the  skilled  fire 
man  threw  in  three  or  four  shovels  of  coal, 


12  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

closed  it,  and  leaned  out  of  the  window,  watch 
ing  the  stack.  The  trained  fireman  can  tell  by 
the  color  of  the  smoke  how  the  fire  burns. 

The  few  pounds  of  steam  lost  in  fixing  the 
fire,  and  by  reason  of  the  throttle  being  thrown 
wide  open,  are  soon  regained.  The  pointer 
goes  round  to  190,  and  the  white  steam  begins 
to  flutter  from  the  relief  valve  at  the  top  of  the 
dome.  She  must  be  cooled  a  little  now,  or  she 
will  pop,  and  waste  her  energy.  An  extra  flow 
of  cold  water  quenches  her  burning  thirst,  and 
she  quiets  down.  How  like  a  woman  when  her 
heart  is  hurt !  She  must  be  soothed  and  petted, 
or  she  will  burst  into  tears  and  sob  herself 
away. 

Now  we  turn  into  a  long  tangent,  and  are 
clipping  off  a  mile  a  minute.  Our  iron  steed 
trembles,  shakes,  and  vibrates  a  little,  but  aside 
from  the  fact  that  there  is  some  dust,  the  cab  is 
not  an  uncomfortable  place.  The  exhausts,  that 
began  in  the  Grand  Central  station  like  the 
explosion  of  a  shotgun,  come  so  fast,  so  close 
together,  that  they  sound  like  the  drumming  of 
a  pheasant's  wings. 

The  sun  sinks  behind  the  big  blue  mountains, 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  13 

the  shadows  creep  across  the  valley,  and  up  to 
our  window  comes  the  faint  perfume  of  the 
fields  —  the  last  scent  of  summer  in  the  soft 
September  winds.  Here  and  there  we  can  see 
the  lamps  lighted^  in  the  happy  homes  by  the 
Hudson,  while  the  many  colored  signal-lamps 
light  up  our  way. 

Not  long  ago  I  stood  for  the  first  time  on  the 
deck  of  a  steamer  bounding  over  the  billowy 
bar  at  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  River,  and 
was  filled  with  a  reckless  joy.  Looking  down 
at  the  little  woman  who  hung  to  the  railing  near 
me,  I  beheld  a  face  radiant  with  rapture. 
"How  is  it?"  I  asked.  "It's  worth  drown 
ing  for,"  was  her  answer ;  and  so  I  reckon  now. 
Taking  into  consideration  all  the  risk,  and  the 
fact  that  I  must  remain  on  this  narrow  seat  for 
twenty  hours,  yet  I  am  forced  to  confess  that 
so  grand  a  trip  is  but  poorly  paid  for. 

If  I  am  at  all  uneasy  it  is  only  when  turning 
the  slightly  reversed  curves  where  the  way 
changes  from  a  two  to  a  four  track  road,  or 
back.  Plain  curves  are  all  well  enough.  But 
it  does  not  seem  quite  right  to  shoot  her  into 
those  kinks  at  a  mile  a  minute.  Yet  after  I 


14  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


have  seen  her  take  two  or  three  of  these,  I 
rather  enjoy  it.  She  sways  to  the  right,  to  the 
left ;  then,  with  a  smart  shake  of  her  head  when 
she  finds  the  tangent,  she  speeds  away  like  the 
wind. 

Every  man  in  the  employ  of  a  great  rail- 
.-load  company  plays  an  important  part.  These 
smooth  curves,  perfectly  pitched,  are  the  work 
of  an  expert  trackman.  The  outer  rail  must  be 
elevated  according  to  the  curve,  and  with  full 
knowledge  of  the  speed  of  the  trains  that  are  to  ' 
use  the  track.  I  have  seen  a  train  on  a  heavy 
grade,  drawn  by  two  strong  locomotives,  when 
nearly  stalled  on  a  sharp  curve,  lift  a  sleeper 
from  the  middle  of  the  train  and  turn  it  over. 
It  was  because  the  curve  was  too  sharp,  and 
the  elevation  too  great,  for  so  slow  a  train. 

The  engineer  looks  across  the  cab  and  smiles, 
and  I  know  that  he  has  taken  my  hint  about 
reaching  Albany  on  time  good-naturedly;  we 
understand  each  other.  In  his  smile  he  asks  : 
"  How  do  you  like  it?  "  and  I  answer  by  raising 
my  right  hand  with  all  save  the  first  finger  partly 
closed,  and  with  a  slight  turn  of  the  wrist  give 
him  that  signal  so  well  known  to  train  and 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE 


engine  men,  which  means  "All  right;  let 
her  go." 

We  were  due  at  Albany  at  5.45,  and  at  5.40 
the  fireman  stepped  over  and  shouted  in  my 
ear :  "  That  big  building  at  the  end  of  the 
stretch  there  is  the  capitol  of  the  State ;  "  and 
the  "  Exposition  Flyer  "  rolled  into  Albany  on 
time. 

An  extra  sleeper,  well  rilled  with  the  good 
people  of  the  capital,  was  switched  to  our  train. 
Saying  good-by  to  the  old  crew,  I  swung  into 
the  cab  of  the  907.  The  engineer  shook  hands 
warmly,  said  he  expected  me,  introduced  me 
to  his  fireman,  showed  me  a  comfortable  seat 
directly  behind  him,  and  opened  the  throttle. 
This  locomotive  was  nearly  new,  black  and 
beautiful. 

I  noticed  that  we  pulled  out  a  few  minutes 
late.  There  is  a  heavy  grade  out  of  Albany, 
and  though  we  had  a  helper  pushing  us  over 
the  hill,  it  seemed  as  if  we  should  never  get 
them  going;  and  when  we  did,  we  were  six 
minutes  behind  our  card  time.  The  fireman, 
with  whom  I  sympathized,  worked  hard,  but  he 
was  handicapped.  The  hard  pounding  up  the 


I  6  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

hill  had  torn  holes  in  his  fire.  His  furnace  door 
worked  badly  —  it  would  not  stay  open ;  and 
to  make  a  misstroke  with  a  single  shovel  of  coal 
on  such  a  train  is  not  without  its  bad  effect. 
The  gauge  lamp  bothered  him.  Twice  he  had 
to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  big  boiler  and  re 
light  it.  The  additional  car,  too,  told  on  the 
locomotive,  and  it  seemed  impossible,  though 
the  crew  worked  faithfully,  to  get  a  mile  a  min 
ute  out  of  her.  When  the  engineer  shut  off  to 
slow  for  a  station,  running  without  steam,  she 
swept  over  the  steel  track  as  smoothly  as  a 
woman  rides  on  roller  skates,  making  little 
more  noise  than  a  coach.  She  was  the  smooth 
est  rider  and  the  poorest  "  steamer  "  of  the  lot ; 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  with  all  things  work 
ing  well  she  would  not  steam,  nor  was  her  crew 
at  fault.  But  so  important  are  the  moments  on 
a  train  like  this,  that  the  least  mishap  is  as  fatal 
as  for  a  trotting-horse  to  slip  in  the  start. 

A  number  of  little  things,  including  a  bad 
stop  at  a  water-spout,  put  us  into  Syracuse  six 
minutes  late  ;  and  the  gentle  and  gentlemanly 
engineer,  for  whom  I  was  really  sorry,  showed 
plainly  his  embarrassment. 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  I  7 

A  jolly-looking  young  man  was  the  engineer 
of  the  896.  This  crew  was  a  little  remote,  I 
thought,  at  first.  But  when  they  had  seen  my 
credentials  they  thawed  out ;  and  although  we 
left  eleven  minutes  late,  the  ride  to  Buffalo  was 
a  delightful  one.  Just  as  we  were  pulling  out, 
one  of  the  black  boys  from  the  "  diner  "  came 
to  the  engine  with  a  splendid  luncheon,  sent 
over  by  Conductor  Rockwell.  We  were  soon 
going.  Holding  the  plate  on  my  lap,  I  began 
to  devour  the  eatables ;  but  as  the  train  began 
to  roll  about,  I  was  obliged  to  throw  the  lunch 
eon  out  of  the  window,  almost  losing  the  plate 
as  I  did  so.  But  I  held  to  a  half-gallon  pail 
which  was  nearly  full  of  steaming  coffee.  I 
asked  my  friends  to  join  me,  but  they  shook 
their  heads.  The  engine  rolled  more  and 
more,  as  did  the  coffee ;  and  the  boys  laughed 
as  I  stood  tiptoe,  taking  one  long  drink  after 
another.  I  passed  the  pail  to  the  fireman,  who 
was  about  to  dash  it  away ;  but,  catching  scent 
of  the  coffee,  paused,  and  passed  the  pail  up  to 
the  engineer,  who  took  a  good  drink.  The 
fireman  then  took  a  good  drink  too,  and  would 
have  emptied  the  pail ;  but  I  touched  him  on 


I  8  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

the  shoulder,  and  he  passed  it  to  me.  I  took 
another  drink,  all  hands  smiled,  and  we  settled 
down  to  business. 

I  had  been  riding  on  the  fireman's  side  for 
half  an  hour  when  the  jolly  driver  motioned  me 
over,  and  I  took  a  seat  behind  him.  This,, 
locomotive  was  not  very  new,  but  she  was  a 
splendid  "  steamer."  The  fireman  appeared 
to  play  with  her  all  the  while.  The  track  was 
straighter  here,  but  not  so  good.  This  made 
nojifference  with  the  bold  young  man  at  the 
throttle. 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  said  I. 

"  Twenty- five." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  running?  " 

"Twenty-two  years,"  he  said. 

I  don't  know  whether  he  smiled  or  not,  for  I 
saw  only  the  back  of  his  head.  These  men  on 
the  "  Flyer "  seldom  take  their  eyes  from  the 
rail.  I  expressed  anew  a  wish  that  we  might 
be  able  to  make  up  the  lost  time. 

"  I  think  we  shall,"  he  said,  and  he  pulled 
the  throttle  lever  back  toward  the  tank. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  now,  and  the  frost  on 
the  rail  caused  the  swift  steed  to  slip.  When 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  19 

we  had  reached  the  speed  of  a  mile  a  minute, 
and  gone  from  that  to  sixty-five  miles  an  hour, 
I  thought  she  would  surely  be  satisfied;  but 
every  few  minutes  her  feet  flew  from  under  her, 
and  the  wheels  revolved  at  a  rate  that  would 
carry  her  through  the  air  a  hundred  miles  an 
hour.  The  engineer  stood  up  now,  with  one 
hand  on  the  throttle,  the  other  on  the  sand 
lever;  for  it  is  not  quite  safe  to  allow  these 
powerful  engines  to  slip  and  revolve  at  such  a 
rate. 

"  We  Ve  got  twenty-eight  miles  up-hill  now," 
said  the  engineer,  as  he  unlatched  the  lever 
and  gave  her  another  notch.  The  only  effect 
was  a  louder  exhaust,  and  a  greater  strain  on 
the  machinery.  It  seemed  the  harder  he  hit 
her,  the  better  she  steamed ;  and  we  went  up 
the  hill  at  almost  a  fifty-mile  gait. 

"Now  it  is  down  hill  to  Buffalo,"  said  the 
driver;  and,  as  the  speed  increased  to  sixty- 
five,  seventy,  and  then  seventy-five  miles  an 
hour,  the  sensation  was  delightful. 

"  We  Ve  got  thirty-six  miles  now,  and  thirty 
minutes  to  make  it  in,"  said  the  man  at  the 
throttle. 


20  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

"And  you  Ve  got  your  nerve  also,"  said  I  in 
a  whisper.  Orchards,  fields,  and  farms  sweep 
by,  and  the  very  earth  seems  to  tremble  beneath 
our  feet.  The  engine  fairly  lifts  herself  from 
the  rail,  and  seems  to  fly  through  space. 

We  stopped  at  Buffalo  at  11.39,  just  one 
minute  ahead  of  time,  and  this  remarkable  run 
was  made  over  the  poorest  piece  of  track  on 
the  main  line  of  the  New  York  Central  and 
Hudson  River  Railroad.  Eight  hours  and  forty 
minutes,  and  we  are  four  hundred  and  forty- 
four  miles  from  New  York. 

The  men  who  manned  the  898  and  the  907 
are  sound  asleep,  and  this  last  crew  will  be  so 
within  an  hour.  The  flagman  and  brakeman 
meet  for  the  first  time  since  they  left  New  York, 
come  forward  to  ask  how  I  like  it,  then  drift 
into  the  station,  "jolly  up"  the  girl  at  the 
lunch  counter,  pay  for  their  luncheon,  "  stand  " 
her  "off"  for  a  couple  of  cigars,  and  go  out 
into  the  night.  These  are  the  jolly  sailors  of 
the  rail.  Perhaps  they  have  worked  together 
for  a  dozen  years,  in  sun  and  sleet,  skating 
over  the  icy  tops  of  box-cars,  and  standing 
on  the  bridge  at  midnight.  For  this  they 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  21 

have  been  promoted  to  the  smoothest  run  on 
the  road. 

The  conductor  swings  his  hand-grip,  and  whis 
tles  as  he  strolls  into  the  station  and  registers. 
"Train  41,  on  time."  The  wary  watchman  in 
the  despatcher's  office,  who  can  close  his  eyes 
and  see  every  train  on  his  division  at  any 
moment,  lights  his  pipe,  and  puts  his  feet  upon 
the  table,  glad  to  know  that  the  most  important 
train  on  the  line  has  reached  its  destination. 
Mr.  H.  Walter  Webb,  at  the  club,  the  play 
house,  or  at  home,  glances  at  his  watch,  and 
as  he  has  received  no  notice  of  delay,  knows 
that  his  pet  train  —  the  "  Exposition  Flyer  "  — 
has  been  delivered  safely  to  the  Lake  Shore. 
While  this  was  being  accomplished,  the  one 
hundred  and  one  passengers  laughed,  chatted, 
ate  dinner,  and  went  to  bed. 

It  might  be  of  interest  to  pause  a  little  in 
our  journey  here,  and  give  some  account  of 
how  a  great  railroad  is  operated  —  each  man 
going  about  his  business,  and  doing  what  he 
has  to  do  with  so  little  noise. 

The    Superintendent  of   Motive    Power    and 


22  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Machinery  has  full  charge  of  the  rolling-stock 

—  the  road's  equipment.     The  officers  imme 
diately   under    him    are    the    Division    Master 
Mechanics,    who    are    assisted   by   a    travelling 
engineer,  who  goes  about  seeing  that  the  men 
as  well  as  the  locomotives  do  their  work.     He 
is  usually  promoted  from  an  engineer,  and  is 
a  valuable  officer,  seeing  that  engineers  do  not 
abuse     their    engines    or   waste    the    supplies. 
Often,  upon   the  recommendation  of  the  trav 
elling   engineer,  firemen  are  promoted. 

Every  man  reports  to  his  immediate  superior 

—  the  fireman  to  the  engineer,  the  engineer  to 
the  Division  Master  Mechanic,  he  to  the  Super 
intendent    of   Motive    Power.      These    officers 
and  men  are  in  the  Motive  Power  Department ; 
they  are  in  the  Operating  Department  also. 

At  the  head  of  the  Operating  Department  is 
the  Division  Superintendent.  This  officer  ap 
points  the  train-masters,  yard-masters  and  sta 
tion  agents.  It  is  usually  with  his  indorsement 
that  brakemen  are  promoted  to  be  freight  con 
ductors,  and  freight  conductors  to  passenger  runs. 
The  engineer,  especially  when  on  the  road,  is 
responsible  to  the  Division  Superintendent. 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  2$ 

Next  in  importance  is  the  Traffic  Depart 
ment.  If  the  road  has  a  General  Traffic  Man 
ager,  the  work  will  be  in  the  hands  of  a  Gen 
eral  Freight  and  a  General  Passenger  Agent. 
Neither  the  section  boss,  the  local  agent,  nor 
the  conductor  can  issue  transportation  com- 
plimentarily. 

There  are  also  the  Engineering,  the  Auditing, 
Track,  and  Medical  Departments.  There  is 
a  Superintendent  of  Bridges  and  Buildings. 
There  is  the  General  Store  Keeper,  in  charge 
of  all  building  material  and  supplies.  Every 
pound  of  waste,  every  gallon  of  oil,  every  nut 
or  bolt,  is  charged  to  the  locomotive  for  which 
it  is  requested ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  month 
the  Master  Mechanic  knows  what  each  engine 
has  cost  the  company  •  how  many  miles  she 
has  made  to  the  ton  of  coal,  the  pint  of  oil, 
and  the  pound  of  waste.  So,  you  see,  there 
are  other  records  an  engineer  must  make 
besides  a  record  for  fast  running. 

The  conductor  is  the  captain  of  the  train, 
and  as  long  as  he  is  consistent  his  talk  "goes." 
In  addition  to  his  duties  as  collector  of  revenue, 
he  must,  especially  on  a  single-track  road,  read 


24  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

and  check  up  the  register,  to  see  that  all  trains 
due,  and  having  rights  over  his  train,  are  in. 
If  we  except  the  despatcher,  the  conductor  is 
the  best  judge  of  orders  in  the  service.  By  the 
use  of  two  carbon  sheets,  the  operator  receiving 
an  order  for  a  train  will  make  three  copies  :  one 
to  file  in  the  telegraph  office,  one  for  the 
conductor,  and  one  for  the  engineer.  The 
conductor  will  examine  the  order,  and,  if  it  is 
correct  and  proper,  sign  his  name  and  the 
name  of  the  engineer.  He  should  go  to  the 
head  end  and  read  the  order  to  the  engine-men. 
If  the  brakemen  hear  it,  so  much  the  better. 
It  would  be  a  good  plan  if  all  these  men  were 
furnished  with  a  copy  of  the  order.  The  con 
ductor  now  returns  to  the  train.  The  engineer 
does  the  running ;  but  if  he  should  run  contrary 
to  orders,  the  conductor  may  pull  the  automatic 
air  valve  and  stop  the  train. 

The  writer  of  a  recent  article  says  :  "  It  may 
be  possible  to  make  such  mechanical  improve 
ments  as  will  permit  a  rate  of  one  hundred 
miles  an  hour ;  but  where  are  the  men  who  will 
run  these  trains  of  the  future  when  they  are 
built?" 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE 


25 


This  reminds  me  of  a  conversation  which 
took  place  in  my  hearing  thirteen  years  ago,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  men 
talking  were  a  train  crew,  waiting  on  a  side 
track  for  the  Leadville  express,  which  had  just 
begun  to  operate  between  the  carbonate  camp 
and  Colorado's  capital. 

11  They  are  going  to  build  a  line  over  Marshall 
Pass  to  Salt  Lake,"  said  the  conductor;  "but 
I  '11  husk  punkins  'fore  I  '11  run  a  train  there." 

"  You  think  you  would,"  said  the  long,  lank 
brakeman,  taking  the  stem  of  a  black  clay  pipe 
from  between  his  teeth.  "I  want  t'  tell  you 
that  if  they  build  a  road  to  Pike's  Peak,  they  '11 
be  men  just  fool  'nough  to  go  there  and  rail 
road." 

In  less  than  three  years  these  very  men  were 
running  over  the  mountain,  and  in  less  than  ten 
years  we  saw  a  railroad  to  Pike's  Peak.  It 
makes  no  difference  to  these  fearless  fellows 
where  the  road  runs  —  up  a  tree  or  down  a  well 
—  so  long  as  there  are  two  rails.  Bring  on  your 
thunder  birds ;  never  yet  in  the  history  of  rail 
roading  has  an  engineer  asked  for  more  time. 
When  the  running  time  between  New  York  and 


26  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Chicago  is  fifteen  hours,  the  engine-men  will 
work  harder  for  promotion  than  they  do  now. 
We  have  now  not  only  the  men  to  run  these 
trains,  but  we  have  the  motive  power.  With  a 
track  as  nearly  perfect  as  engine  999,  for  ex 
ample,  herself  is,  she  will  make  her  one  hundred 
miles  an  hour.  This  locomotive  is  the  plain 
single-cylinder,  eight-wheel  type  of  engine, 
which  has  been  a  favorite  with  engine-men  for 
the  past  fifteen  years.  Manifestly,  Mr.  Buchanan 
has  very  little  faith  in  the  newer  compound  loco 
motives  which  have  been  claiming  the  attention 
of  managers  of  late.  The  Rio  Grande  Western, 
one  of  the  swiftest  little  lines  in  the  West,  has 
been  making  a  thorough  test  of  the  compound 
engine.  It  finds  that  with  an  ordinary  train 
they  show  no  saving  of  fuel,  but  with  a  heavy 
train  they  perform  beautifully. 

When  the  next  new  ocean-steamer  is  placed 
upon  the  Atlantic,  she  will  probably  shorten  the 
time  from  Queenstown  to  New  York  to  five  days. 
That  would  be  six  days  to  Chicago,  and  seven 
days  from  Queenstown  to  the  summit  of  Pike's 
Peak.  There  is  no  excuse  for  squandering  five 
days  in  a  journey  from  New  York  to  San  Fran- 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  2>J 

cisco.     This  would  make  a  comfortable  time- 
card  :  — 

New  York  to  Chicago     ...  19  hours 

Chicago  to  Denver     ....  23  hours 

Denver  to  Ogden 19  hours 

Ogden  to  San  Francisco       .     .  23  hours 

Total,  eighty- four  hours,  or  three  days  and  a 
half,  from  New  York  to  the  Pacific  Coast.  The 
same  time  can  be  made  going  east ;  for  actual 
running  time  is  reckoned,  no  allowance  being 
made  for  difference  in  time.  A  sleeping-car 
attached  to  the  Union  Pacific  fast  mail  leaves 
Omaha  every  evening  at  6.30,  and  arrives  in 
Denver  at  7.30  the  next  morning,  —  five  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five  miles.  This  run  is  made 
across  the  plains,  where  the  traffic  does  not 
justify  the  expenditure  of  a  very  considerable 
amount  of  money  on  track.  There  is  never  a 
night  that  this  train  does  not  reach  the  speed 
of  a  mile  a  minute.  Every  day  this  fast  mail- 
train  makes  the  run  from  Chicago  to  Denver  in 
a  little  over  twenty- four  hours. 

Either  the  Rio  Grande  or  the  Santa  Fe",  in 
connection  with  the  Rio  Grande  Western,  can 
take  you  from  the  Queen  City  of  the  Plains  to 


28  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Ogden  in  nineteen  hours.  The  Southern  Pacific 
has  a  very  good  track  and  splendid  equipment, 
and  they  should  be  ashamed  to  take  thirty-six 
hours  of  a  short  life  to  run  a  little  over  nine 
hundred  miles.  They  can  make  the  run  in 
twenty- three  hours,  and  do  it  easily.  What  we 
want  is  better  track.  The  locomotive  of  to-day 
will  do  for  some  time. 

^Ve  want,  also,  a  high  regard  for  the  lives  of 
passengers  on  the  part  of  railroad  officials  and 
employees.  Much  as  I  would  like  to,  I  am  un 
able  to  offer  a  reasonable  excuse  for  some  of 
the  collisions  which  have  cost  so  many  lives. 
It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  railroads 
could  handle  the  multitudes  to  and  from  the 
World's  Fair  without  injuring  a  number  of 
people,  and  without  some  loss  of  life.  But 
if  every  section  of  a  train  had  been  kept  ten 
minutes  behind  the  section  it  followed,  there 
could  have  been  no  rear-end  collisions  such 
as  we  have  heard  of  recently.  Every  train 
should  have  proceeded  upon  the  theory  that 
it  was  followed  closely  by  a  special,  and  the 
flagman  should  have  been  instructed  to  flag 
without  ceasing.  Better  be  in  Chicago  ten 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  29 

minutes  late  than  in  eternity  ten  years  ahead 
of  time. 

A  locomotive  should  never  cross  the  turn 
table  without  a  box  of  sand,  and  the  driver 
should  see  that  the  pipes  are  open.  Enough 
sand  to  fill  the  sailor  hat  of  a  summer  girl  will 
often  save  a  whole  train. 

Of  course  there  will  always  be  wrecks  as  long 
as  mortal  men-  tend  the  switches  and  hold  the 
throttles,  for  it  is  human  to  err ;  but  the  mind 
should  be  on  the  work  at  all  times.  No  man 
should  be  compelled,  or  even  allowed,  to  remain 
on  duty  more  than  twelve  hours,  or  eighteen  at 
the  most.  After  twenty-four  hours  the  eyes 
become  tired  ;  after  thirty- six  hours  the  brain  is 
benumbed. 

I  have  been  on  a  locomotive  forty  hours,  and 
all  desire  to  sleep  had  left  me ;  but  I  felt  that  I 
was  dreaming  with  my  eyes  wide  open.  The 
fireman  had  to  speak  twice  to  get  my  attention, 
I  was  not  asleep,  but  my  mind  was  away,  and 
when  called  to  note  a  signal  it  returned  reluc 
tantly.  The  brain  seems  to  feel  the  injustice 
of  such  abuse,  and  simply  quits  —  walks  out. 
Of  course,  it  can  be  compelled  to  work,  but  it 


30  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

will  not  work  cheerfully  or  well.  Just  as  any 
other  striker  may  be  forced  to  submit  to  a  de 
crease  in  wages  or  an  increase  of  hours,  so  it 
may  work,  but  will  "  soldier  "  enough  to  put  its 
employer  on  the  losing  side. 

After  such  a  strain  I  have  gone  to  bed  at 
eight  in  the  evening,  and  have  rolled  and  tossed 
and  beat  about  until  midnight,  unable  to  sleep. 
Once  I  dozed  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  sat 
up  in  bed,  pulled  my  watch  from  under  my  pil 
low,  held  it  to  the  open  window  where  the  full 
moon  fell  upon  its  face,  and  said,  so  loud  that  I 
was  wakened  by  my  own  voice :  "  Nine  fifty- 
five ;  No.  lois  due  here  at  10.1."  Half  asleep, 
I  had  dreamed  that  I  was  on  the  side  track  at 
Chester,  waiting  for  the  east-bound  express. 
How  forcibly  the  time-card  rules  are  photo 
graphed  upon  the  brain  !  Even  in  my  sleep  I 
was  "  in  to  clear  "  six  minutes  before  the  oppos 
ing  train  was  due. 

It  so  happened  that  the  night-train  from 
Leadville  was  due  in  Salida  at  about  that  time. 
I  could  hear  it  roaring  down  through  Brown's 
Canon,  and  then  I  heard  the  long,  wild  wail 
of  the  whistle  echoing  along  the  sides  of  the 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  3! 

Sangre  de  Cristo  range.  I  saw  the  head  brake - 
man  open  the  switch,  dropped  out  on  the  main 
line,  saw  the  signal  from  the  rear-end  when  the 
switch  was  closed,  and  drifted  away  down  the 
valley  of  the  Gunnison  —  to  the  vale  of  sleep. 
A  yard  engine  screamed  for  brakes  —  that 
short,  sharp  shriek  that  tells  of  danger  and 
hints  of  death.  I  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  saw  the  great  white  quivering  head-light 
bearing  down  upon  me.  Twice  in  reality  I 
have  stood  in  the  shadow  of  death,  and  I  know 
that  at  such  times  the  mind  sweeps  over  a 
quarter  of  a  century  in  a  second  or  two.  We 
were  on  the  side  track ;  our  train  was  stand 
ing.  Some  one  had  left  the  switch  open,  and 
the  express  was  heading  in  upon  us.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  leap  for  life.  As 
I  threw  my  feet  out  of  the  window  to  jump, 
the  cold  air  awakened  me,  and  I  saw  before 
me,  not  a  head-light,  but  the  big  bright  moon 
that  was  just  about  disappearing  behind  the 
mountains. 

And  this  is  the  way  I  slept  until  6.30,  when 
the  caller  came.  I  signed  the  book,  and  at 
7.30  was  on  the  road  again. 


32  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Where  there  are  no  regular  runs,  and  the 
men  run  "  first  in,  first  out,"  it  is  almost  im 
possible  to  always  have  just  work  enough  to 
go  round.  Tthe  men  are  as  much  to  blame  as 
the  management  for  the  overwork  of  engineers. 
They  are  paid  on  these  mountain  roads  four 
dollars  per  day.  Days  are  not  measured  _by 
hours,  but  by  miles.  Forty- four  mountain,  or 
eighty-five  valley  miles  is  a  day  on  freight.  On 
passenger  service  one  hundred  and  five  valley 
miles  is  a  day's  work.  The  point  between 
valley  and  mountain  mileage  is  passed  when 
the  grade  exceeds  two  hundred  feet  to  the 
mile.  Men  have  made  sixty  days  in  a  month 
on  these  mountains,  and  they  have  earned  the 
two  hundred  and  forty  dollars ;  but  they  should 
not  have  been  allowed  to  do  it. 

One  young  man,  Hyatt  by  name,  used  to 
threaten  to  put  himself  into  a  receiver's  hands 
when  he  made  less  than  forty  days  a  month. 
Fifty  days  was  fair  business,  but  sixty  suited 
him  better.  He  kept  it  up  for  three  years, 
collapsed,  and  had  to  be  hurried  out  of  the 
country.  I  don't  know  that  he  ever  wholly 
recovered.  He  was  a  fine  fellow  physically, 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  33 

sober  and  strong,  or  he  would  have  collapsed 
sooner.  I  am  afraid  the  older  engineers  are  a 
V  little  selfish.  When  the  management  proposes 
to  employ  more  men,  or  promote  some  fire 
man,  there  is  usually  a  protest  from  the  older 
runners. 

In  the  general  instructions  printed  in  the 
New  York  Central  time-card,  we  find  the  fol 
lowing  :  "  The  use  of  intoxicating  drink  on  the 
road,  or  about  the  premises  of  the  corporation, 
is  strictly  forbidden.  No  one  will  be  employed, 
or  continued  in  employment,  who  is  known  to 
be  in  the  habit  of  drinking  intoxicating  liquor." 
They  might  have  added  "  on  or  off  duty," 
just  to  make  it  plain  and  strong.  A  man  who 
was  drunk  last  night  is  not  fit  to  run  a  train  or 
engine  to-day.  Men  who  never  drink  should 
be  encouraged,  and  promoted  ahead  of  those 
who  do.  I  have  always  opposed  the  idea  of 
promoting  men  strictly  in  accordance  with  the 
length  of  time  they  have  served  in  any  capacity. 
If  all  firemen  knew  that  they  would  be  pro 
moted  when  they  had  fired  a  certain  number 
of  years,  there  would  be  nothing  to  strive  for. 
They  would  be  about  as  ambitious  as  a  herd  of 
3 


34  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

steers  who   are  to  be  kept  until  they  are  three 
years  old,  and  then  shipped. 

The  best  engine-man  has  been  a  fireman; 
the  best  conductors  are  made  of  brakemen ; 
the  best  officials  are  promoted  from  the  ranks. 
Mr.  John  M.  Toucey,  General  Manager  of  the 
New  York  Central,  was  once  a  trainman.  Pres 
ident  Newell,  of  the  Lake  Shore,  used  to  carry 
a  chain  in  an  engineering  corps  on  the  Illinois 
Central.  President  Clark,  of  the  Mobile  and 
Ohio,  was  a  section  man ;  afterwards  a  fireman. 
Another  man  who  drove  grade  stakes  is  Presi 
dent  Blockstand,  of  the  Alton.  Allen  Manvill, 
the  late  president  of  "  the  longest  road  on 
earth,"  was  a  storehouse  clerk.  President  Van 
Home  (Sir  William  now),  of  the  Canadian 
Pacific,  kept  time  on  the  Illinois  Central.  A 
man  named  Towne,  who  used  to  twist  brake- 
wheels  on  the  Burlington,  is  now  Vice- President 
Towne,  of  the  Southern  Pacific.  President 
Smith,  of  the  Louisville  and  Nashville,  was  a 
telegraph  operator.  Marvin  Hughitt,  of  the 
Chicago  and  Northwestern,  began  as  a  telegraph 
messenger-boy.  President  Clark,  of  the  Union 
Pacific,  used  to  check  freight  and  push  a  truck 


A    THOUSAND-MILE   RIDE  35 

on  the  "Omaha  platform."  The  Illinois  Cen 
tral,  I  believe,  has  turned  out  more  great  men 
than  any  other  road.  President  Jeffrey,  of  the 
Denver  and  Rio  Grande,  began  in  the  Central 
shops,  at  forty-five  cents  a  day.  General  Super 
intendent  Sample,  of  the  same  Company,  began 
at  Baldwins  at  $1.50  a  week. 

But  this  has  been  a  long  detour,  and  my 
wait  at  Buffalo  was  really  a  very  short  one. 
The  896  gave  place  to  the  293,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  we  were  under  way  again. 

The  locomotives  used  by  the  New  York  Cen 
tral  were  designed  by  Mr.  Buchanan,  Superin 
tendent  of  Motive  Power.  They  consume  a 
tank  of  coal  over  each  division,  and  drink  up 
thirty-six  hundred  gallons  of  water  an  hour,  or 
nearly  a  gallon  a  second.  A  number  ten  moni 
tor  injector  forces  the  water  from  the  tank  into 
the  boiler.  When  I  stepped  from  the  Central's 
magnificent  hundred-ton  locomotive  to  the 
Lake  Shore's  little  McQueen,  with  her  five-foot- 
ten  wheel,  the  latter  looked  like  a  toy. 

I  had  not  heard  so  much  of  the  Lake  Shore 
and  Michigan  Southern,  over  whose  line  we 


36  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

were  now  to  travel,  and  was  agreeably  surprised 
to  find  such  splendid  track.  The  293  put  a 
mile  a  minute  behind  her  with  a  grace  and  ease 
really  remarkable.  The  lamps  have  all  been 
blown  out  in  the  farmhouses,  and  the  world 
has  gone  to  sleep.  The  big  white  moon,  that 
came  up  from  the  Atlantic  as  we  were  leaving 
the  metropolis,  is  dropping  down  in  the  west. 

The  Lake  Shore  is  remarkable  for  its  short 
divisions  and  long  tangents.  "  That 's  the  east- 
bound  '  Flyer,'  "  said  the  fireman,  as  a  bright 
head-light  showed  up  in  front  of  us ;  and  in  a 
minute  she  dashed  by.  I  had  just  begun  to 
get  used  to  the  bell  when  we  stopped  at  Erie 
on  time. 

A  flat-topped  Brooks  locomotive,  number  559, 
with  a  big,  roomy  cab,  a  youthful  driver,  a  six- 
foot  wheel,  and  an  enthusiastic  fireman  who 
knew  his  business  (as  they  must  on  this  run), 
backed  up  to  our  train.  "  You  '11  have  this 
class  of  engine  all  the  way  to  Chicago,"  said 
the  engineer.  "They  were  built  for  these 
trains."  They  are  but  little  heavier  than  the 
McQueen,  but  splendid  "  steamers,"  good  riders, 
and  run  like  a  coyote.  The  fireman  found 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  37 

time  to  show  me  the  home  of  the  dear  dead 
Garfield,  and  made  me  shudder  when  he  pointed 
to  the  Ashtabula  bridge,  where  so  many  lives 
were  lost  some  years  ago.  I  was  glad  to  think 
that  wooden  bridges  and  poor  roadways  were 
things  of  the  past. 

We  are  making  a  mile  a  minute.  What 
would  the  driver  do  if  he  saw  before  him  a 
burning  bridge,  or  the  red  lights  of  a  standing 
train  ?  His  left  hand  is  on  the  throttle ;  he 
would  close  it.  Almost  in  the  same  second  his 
right  hand  would  grasp  the  sand  lever,  and 
with  his  left  he  would  apply  the  brakes.  With 
both  hands,  in  about  the  third  second,  he  would 
reverse  the  engine.  Perhaps  he  has  heard  that 
old  story  that  to  reverse  a  locomotive  is  to 
increase  her  speed  —  that  a  bird  will  fly  faster 
with  folded  wings :  he  may  pretend  to  believe 
it ;  but  he  will  reverse  her  just  the  same.  If 
she  has  room  she  will  stop.  Even  without  the 
aid  of  the  air-brake  she  will  stop  the  train,  if 
the  rail  holds  out.  I  ought  to  say  that,  the 
instant  he  reverses  the  engine,  he  will  kick  the 
cylinder  cocks  open  —  otherwise  he  may  blow 
off  a  steam-chest  or  a  cylinder  head. 


38  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


engineer  will  risk  his  life  to  save  his 
train.  Of  this  the  travelling  public  may  rest 
assured.  Even  though  he  may  be,  or  may 
have  been,  the  greatest  coward  living,  a  man 
who  has  run  a  locomotive  for  a  number  of 
years  will  do,  in  the  face  of  a  great  danger, 
just  what  I  have  described.  To  say  that  he 
does  this  mechanically  is  not  to  accuse  him 
of  cowardice.  It  is  harder  to  enlist  than  to 
march  to  the  music  and  keep  up  with  the  crowd 
when  the  battle  is  on.  He  does  not,  mechani 
cally,  say  good-by  to  loved  ones,  and  step  into 
the  cab  knowing  that  he  must  face  danger,  even 
death.  The  mother  seeing  her  child  fall  in 
front  of  a  cable-car,  without  stopping  to  reason 
what  is  best  to  do,  or  taking  thought  of  the 
risk,  springs  to  the  rescue.  The  engineer,  see 
ing  an  open  switch,  reasons  no  more,  but  does 
that  which  human  instinct  tells  him  to  do.  It 
was  my  business,  for  a  number  of  years,  to  read 
and  write  about  railroad  people  ;  and  if_an, 
engineer  ever  left  the  cab  without  first  making 
an  effort  to  save  his  train,  I  have  failed  to  hear 
of  it. 

Having    met    and    passed    the    east-bound 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  39 

"Flyer,"  we  have  absolute  right  of  track  to 
Chicago.  All  north  or  east  bound  trains  have 
rights  of  track  over  trains  of  the  same  or  in 
ferior  class  going  in  the  opposite  direction.  The 
terms  passenger  or  freight  are  descriptive,  and 
do  not  refer  to  class.  All  trains  are  designated 
as  regular  or  extra.  The  regular  trains  are 
those  on  the  time-cards ;  the  extras  are  run 
by  special  telegraphic  orders,  and  always  carry 
white  flags  or  white  lights  on  the  locomotive. 
An  extra  train  composed  of  passenger  cars 
is  usually  called  a  "  special ;  "  of  freight  cars 
an  "  extra ;  "  and  they  must  always  be  kept  off 
the  time  of  regular  trains  of  whatever  class. 

"  And  this  is  Cleveland,"  said  I,  as  I  looked 
from  the  roomy  cab  of  another  Brooks,  "  the 
home  of  the  Grand  Old  Chief?  "  I  had  hoped, 
by  showing  that  I  knew  Mr.  Arthur,  to  put 
myself  in  touch  with  the  driver ;  but  a  prophet 
is  never  appreciated  at  home,  and  the  only 
reply  was  a  good-natured  grunt  and  a  sarcastic 
smile. 

It  is  hard  pounding  out  of  Cleveland,  and 
I  wonder  that  a  yard-engine  does  not  give 
us  a  little  start.  It  is  almost  morning  now. 


40  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Just  the  time  for  a  wreck.  More  collisions, 
I  believe,  occur  between  the  hours  of  two  and 
six  A.  M.  than  in  the  other  twenty  hours  of  the 
day.  Now  for  the  first  time  I  feel  just  a  little 
tired.  Just  once  I  closed  my  eyes,  and  it 
seemed  to  rest  them  so  that  I  kept  them  closed 
for  a  moment,  until  I  felt  myself  swaying  on 
the  seat.  Then  I  opened  them  wide,  for  we 
were  making  more  than  a  mile  a  minute,  and 
to  sleep  was  to  run  the  risk  of  falling  out  of 
the  open  window  at  my  left.  That  was  the  only 
time  on  the  whole  trip  that  I  felt  the  least  incli 
nation  to  sleep. 

At  Toledo  we  changed  engines  and  train 
crews,  and  in  the  gray  dawn  of  morning  pulled 
out  for  Elkhart,  Indiana.  The  94  had  seen 
considerable  service ;  she  was  not  very  beauti 
ful,  and,  having  a  flat  spot  on  one  of  her  wheels, 
was  a  little  lame.  The  hostler  "  slid  "  her,  the 
fireman  said ;  but  when  the  serious-looking 
engineer  got  her  headed  down  the  sixty-eight 
mile  tangent,  the  flat  spot  and  the  little  limp 
gave  us  no  more  trouble.  The  speed  was  so 
great  that  she  touched  only  the  high  places, 
and  the  ride  down  the  long  stretch  of  straight 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  41 

track  was  a  delightful  one.  The  sun,  that  I 
had  seen  drop  down  behind  the  Catskills,  as 
it  seemed,  but  a  few  hours  ago,  swung  up 
from  the  Atlantic,  and  shone  on  the  Hoosier 
hills,  "  where  the  frost  was  on  the  punkin,  and 
the  fodder  in  the  shock."  The  trainmaster, 
from  Toledo,  came  over  to  ride  with  me,  and 
showed  me  where  the  daring  train  robbers  held 
the  train  up  in  an  open  prairie,  on  a  straight 
track.  We  held  our  watches  on  the  94,  and 
found  that  she  made  ten  miles  in  eight  minutes, 
and  eleven  miles  in  eight  and  one  half  minutes. 
Old  and  lame  as  she  is,  she  manages  to  limp 
over  eight  thousand  miles  a  month,  at  an 
average  rate  of  a  mile  a  minute.. 

The  94  reminded  me  of  a  jack  rabbit.  When 
he  gets  up  he  is  so  stiff  and  lame  that  a  well- 
trained  greyhound  is  ashamed  to  chase  him. 
He  will  wabble  about,  stumble  and  fall,  put 
down  three  and  carry  one,  until  the  dog  is 
ready  to  eat  him.  Then  he  lays  his  ears  down 
along  his  spine,  and  skims  over  the  sage-brush 
with  the  speed  of  the  wind. 

At  Elkhart  the  160  backed  on  to  our  train. 
The  conductor  came  running  forward  with  a 


42  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

manifold  order,  and,  handing  a  copy  to  the 
engineer,  they  both  began  to  read.  "  Put  up 
green  signals,"  said  the  driver;  and  the  fire 
man  planted  a  small  green  flag  on  either  side 
of  the  front  end  of  the  locomotive,  and  we  were 
off  for  Chicago.  These  flags  did  not  affect 
us  or  our  train ;  they  only  showed  that  some 
thing  was  following  us  with  the  same  rights 
that  we  enjoyed.  As  often  as  we  passed  a  train 
or  switch-engine,  the  engineer  sounded  two 
long  and  two  short  blasts  of  the  whistle,  and 
the  other  engineers  answered  with  two  short, 
sharp  whistles,  saying  that  they  understood  the 
signals. 

The  1 60  was  an  easy  rider,  and  as  she  slipped 
down  the  smooth  steel  track,  the  run  over  the 
last  division  was  no  whit  less  glorious  than  was 
our  midnight  ride  on  the  Central. 

The  cheerful  driver  appeared  to  regard  his 
day's  work  as  a  pleasant  morning  ride  down 
to  Chicago,  one  hundred  and  one  miles,  in  two 
hours.  When  we  were  acquainted,  and  he  had 
seen  my  old  worn  license  as  a  locomotive 
engineer,  he  called  me  over  to  his  side.  Find 
ing  myself,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  at  the 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  43 

throttle  of  a  locomotive  making  a  mile  a  minute, 
I  was  almost  dizzy  with  delight.  Fields  and 
farms  flew  by,  and  the  mile-posts  began  to  get 
together  like  telegraph  poles.  A  prairie  hawk 
flying  down  the  track  became  bewildered,  and 
barely  saved  his  life  by  a  quick  swerve  as  the 
front  end  of  the  locomotive  was  about  to  strike 
him ;  his  wing  brushed  the  signal  lamp  on  my 
side.  Little  brown  birds,  flying  in  front  of  us, 
dashed  against  the  cab  windows,  fluttered  from 
the  running  board,  and  dropped  to  the  ground 
dead. 

While  she  was  making  her  mile  in  fifty  to 
fifty-five  seconds,  the  train  inspector  came  over 
the  tank,  bearing  a  tray  which  held  a  steaming 
breakfast  for  the  "  dead-head,"  in  the  cab. 
"  Put  it  on  the  boiler  head,"  shouted  the  engi 
neer  ;  and  then  I  learned  what  the  flat  top  was 
intended  for.  Placing  the  tray  on  top  of  the 
boiler,  I  stood  up  in  the  corner  of  the  cab  and 
ate  my  breakast,  and  enjoyed  it  at  the  rate  of  a 
mile  a  minute  and  a  dollar  a  meal. 

Looking  back  along  the  side  of  this  remark 
able  train,  I  was  surprised  to  note  that  the 
heavy  Wagner  cars,  owing  to  hydraulic  buffer 


44  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

equipment,  swayed  not  to  exceed  two  inches 
out  of  a  straight  line  when  we  were  making 
seventy-five  miles  an  hour.  I  have  never  trav 
elled  in  the  cars  of  this  swift  train  ;  but,  judging 
from  the  way  the  locomotives  ride,  the  coaches 
must  be  as  easy  as  a  sleigh.  We  placed  the 
coffee  cup  outside  the  tray  on  the  jacket,  which 
is  almost  as  smooth  as  glass,  and  it  rode  there 
for  a  half  hour,  when  the  inspector  took  it  off. 

Nobody  ever  heard  of  a  person  drowning  on 
air,  and  yet  I  believe  it  is  possible.  When  we 
were  running  at  the  rate  of  seventy-five  or 
eighty  miles  an  hour,  I  closed  my  mouth  and 
leaned  out  of  the  window.  The  force  of  the 
air  was  so  great  that  it  actually  strangled  me  ; 
I  tried  it  again  and  again,  with  the  same  result. 
The  air  drove  into  my  nostrils  with  such  force 
that  I  invariably  opened  my  mouth  to  breathe ; 
and  then  the  air  drove  down  my  throat,  and 
compelled  me  to  draw  back  into  the  cab.  Now, 
when  we  breathe  water  into  the  nostrils,  we 
always  throw  open  the  mouth,  only  to  take  in 
more  water  and  strangle  the  worse.  If,  when 
you  had  put  your  head  out  of  a  locomotive  cab 
moving  at  seventy-five  or  eighty  miles  an  hour, 


A    THOUSAND-MILE  RIDE  45 

a  strong  hand  seized  it  and  held  it  there,  you 
would,  I  believe,  actually  drown. 

In  California  they  do  not  say  the  oldest  mis 
sion,  the  largest  orchard,  the  biggest  tree  "  in 
the  State"  or  "in  the  Union,"  but  "in  the 
world."  I  shall  say  this  is  the  swiftest  and 
safest  long  distance  train  on  earth.  That  it  is 
the  swiftest,  the  time-card  proves.  It  is  the 
safest,  for  the  reason  that,  from  the  moment 
the  "  Exposition  Flyer "  leaves  New  York, 
every  man  in  the  employ  of  the  New  York 
Central  and  the  Lake  Shore  railroads,  including 
Dr.  Depew  and  Mr.  John  Newell,  look  out  for 
her  until  she  whistles  into  Chicago.  If  the 
"Flyer"  loses  over  five  minutes,  the  fact  as 
well  as  the  cause  of  the  delay  is  wired  at  once 
to  Mr.  Edgar  Van  Etten,  the  General  Superin 
tendent.  Everything  is  out  of  the  way,  and 
switches  set  for  her  ten  minutes  before  she  is 
due.  Ordinarily,  when  a  passenger  train  is 
late,  her  danger  is  correspondingly  increased. 
Not  so  with  the  "  Exposition  Flyer ;  "  she  has 
the  right  to  the  rail  until  she  is  able  to  use  it, 
or  until  she  becomes  twelve  hours  late.  When 
she  is  one  minute  late,  all  who  are  watching 


46  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

and  waiting  for  her  know  it,  and  their  anxiety 
increases  until  she  is  heard  from.  No  train  on 
the  road  runs  closer  to  her  time-card  than  the 
"  Flyer."  Nearly  all  the  ugly  wrecks  are  rear- 
end  collisions ;  but  there  is  no  danger  from  that 
source  to  this  train.  Nothing  short  of  a  thunder 
bolt  can  catch  her. 

But,  behold,  here  in  full  view  are  the  glisten 
ing  domes  of  the  White  City  and  the  mammoth, 
high-mounted  Ferris  wheel !  The  last  of  nearly 
a  thousand  miles  of  steel  has  slipped  from  under 
our  faithful  steed,  and  at  precisely  ten  o'clock 
A.M.  we  stop  at  the  Chicago  station — on  time. 
It  has  taken  twenty  hours,  eight  engines,  and 
sixteen  engine-men  to  bring  us  through,  and  it 
has  been  a  glorious  trip  —  the  best  of  my  life. 


Mun 


THE  DEATH  RUN 


A  LONG  in  the  early  eighties,  when  the  Den- 
"^  ver  and  Rio  Grande  was  a  narrow  gauge 
road,  and  the  main  line  lay  across  the  great 
divide  at  Marshall  Pass,  there  was  a  wreck  in 
the  Black  Canon,  and  of  that  wreck  I  write. 

So  rough  and  impenetrable  was  this  canon 
that  the  men  sent  out  to  blaze  the  trail  were 
unable  to  get  through.  Engineers,  with  their 
instruments,  were  let  down  from  the  top  of  the 
canon  wall,  hundreds  of  feet,  by  long  ropes; 
and  to  this  day,  if  you  look  up  when  the  train 
goes  round  "  Dead  Man's  Curve,"  you  will  see 
a  frayed-out  rope  whipping  the  gray  rocks,  five 
hundred  feet  above  the  river  and  the  rail. 

By  the  breaking  of  this  rope  a  human  life 

was  lost :  the  first  of  many  lives  that  have  been 

lost  in  this  wild  canon.     In  the  rush  and  hurry 

to  complete  the  road,  little  attention  was  given 

4 


50  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

to  sloping  the  cuts  or  making  it  safe  for  the 
men  who  ride  ahead.  So,  when  spring  came, 
and  the  snow  began  to  melt  on  the  mountains 
and  moisten  the  earth,  great  pieces  of  "  scenery  " 
would  loose  their  hold  upon  the  steep  hill,  and 
sweep  down  the  side  of  the  canon,  carrying 
rails,  road-bed,  in  fact  everything  but  the  right 
of  way,  across  the  river,  where  the  land-slide 
was  often  landed  high  and  dry  on  the  opposite 
shore. 

So  often  was  the  "  scenery  "  shifted  during 
the  first  twelve  months  that  the  night  run 
through  the  Black  Canon,  so  wildly  beautiful 
by  day,  so  grand  and  awful  by  night,  came  to 
be  called  the  "Death  Run." 

It  was  engineer  Peasley's  run  out  that  night ; 
but  he  had  just  returned  from  the  stony  little 
graveyard  that  had  been  staked  out  on  the 
banks  of  the  Gunnison,  where  they  had  buried 
his  baby.  He  was  a  delicate-looking  man,  and 
when  he  came  into  the  round-house  that  after 
noon  to  register  off,  he  wore  his  soft  hat  far 
down  over  his  inflamed  eyes,  as  if  he  would 
hide  from  the  world  any  trace  of  that  sacred 
grief.  Kipp,  his  fireman,  saw  him,  and  was 


THE  DEATH  RUN  51 

sorry,  for  he  knew  how  dearly  the  driver  had 
loved  the  little  one  now  lost  to  him.  Sliding 
from  the  pilot,  where  he  had  been  scouring  the 
number-plate,  Kipp  went  to  the  book  and 
registered  off  also. 

And  so  it  happened  that,  when  Number 
Seven  left  Gunnison  at  9.15  Jack  Welsh  held 
the  seat,  and  fireman  McConnell  handled  the 
scoop.  The  sharp  exhausts  from  the  straight 
stack  sent  up  a  solid  stream  of  fire,  as  they 
hurried  out  through  the  yards,  that  fell  like  hail 
among  the  crippled  cars  on  the  "  rep"  track. 

The  brisk  bark  of  the  bounding  engine 
dwindled  down  to  a  faint  pant,  and  was  drowned 
in  the  roar  of  the  wheels,  as  the  long  train 
hurried  away  down  the  valley,  and  was  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  Black  Canon.  The  run  was 
regarded  as  a  difficult  one ;  but  the  extra  crew 
were  equal  to  it,  and  at  every  station  up  to 
11.30  the  operator  wired  the  despatcher,  the 
despatcher  the  train- master,  and  he  the  super 
intendent  :  "  Number  Seven  on  time." 

Although  he  had  no  regular  run,  McConnell 
was  really  an  old  fireman.  He  had  but  recently 
returned  to  the  road  after  a  year's  absence. 


52  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

At  the  earnest  solicitation  of  his  good  mother, 
he  had  left  the  rail  to  return  to  his  father's  farm 
near  Salina,  Kansas.  He  was  a  good  and  duti 
ful  son,  and  he  loved  his  mother  as  only  such 
a  son  can  love  ;  but  he  could  not  help  the  long 
ing  within  him  to  return  to  the  road.  That 
summer  the  Missouri  Pacific  opened  a  new  line 
right  through  his  father's  farm,  and  every  day 
he  heard  the  snort  of  the  iron  horse,  saw  the 
trains  go  to  and  fro,  saw  the  engine-men  throw 
ing  kisses  to  the  girls  on  the  farm,  and  he 
wanted  to  return  to  the  Rockies.  More  than 
once  every  day  he  looked  away  to  the  west, 
where  he  knew  the  trains  were  going  up  and 
down ;  where  the  snow  lay  in  great  drifts  on 
one  side  of  the  track,  and  the  flowers  bloomed 
by  the  other.  Who  can  say  how  the  heart  of 
the  engine-man  longs  for  the  engine? 

<?     i    '?  -^-~: — " 

He  loves  the  locomotive 

As  the  flowers  love  the  lea, 
As  the  song-birds  love  the  sunlight, 
As  the  sailor  loves  the  sea. 

When  the  harvest  had  been  cut  and  the 
golden  grain  garnered,  the  restless  youth  bade 
his  parents  adieu,  and  set  his  face  toward  the 


THE  DEATH  RUN  53 

sunset.  He  had  been  a  faithful  fireman,  and 
found  no  trouble  in  re-establishing  himself  in 
the  service  of  the  "Scenic"  Line. 

The  Death  Run  was  a  long  one  :  one  hundred 
and  thirty-five  miles  over  mountains  and  through 
canons.  They  had  crossed  Cero  summit,  and 
were  now  roaring  along  the  canon,  by  the  banks 
of  the  beautiful  river. 

The  night  grew  warmer  as  they  drifted  down 
toward  the  valley  of  the  Grande.  The  engineer 
sat  silently  in  his  place,  trying  the  water,  whist 
ling  for  stations,  and  watching  the  way.  The 
fireman,  having  little  to  do  now,  lounged  in  the 
open  window  and  looked  out  on  the  rippling 
river  where  the  moonlight  lay.  It  was  almost 
midnight  when  the  operator  at  Roubideau  was 
awakened  by  the  wild  wail  of  the  west-bound 
express.  As  the  long  train  rattled  over  the 
bridge  beyond  the  little  station,  the  operator 
reached  for  the  key  and  made  the  wire  say : 
"  Number  Seven  on  time." 

Beyond  the  bridge  there  was  a  bit  of  a  tan 
gent,  a  few  hundred  yards;  and  when  they 
turned  into  it,  the  fireman  got  down  from  his 
comfortable  seat  to  fix  the  fire. 


54  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

The  driver  released  the  brakes  at  the  bridge, 
and  the  train  was  now  increasing  her  speed  at 
every  turn  of  the  wheels.  Looking  ahead,  the 
engineer  saw  the  open  mouth  of  Roubideau 
tunnel,  which,  being  on  the  shadow  side  of  the 
hill,  looked  like  a  great  hole  in  the  night. 
Nearer  the  engine  he  saw  a  number  of  dark 
objects  scattered  about.  In  another  second  he 
discerned  what  these  were,  and  realized  an 
awful  danger.  As  he  reversed  the  engine  and 
applied  the  air,  he  shouted  to  the  fireman  to 
jump.  He  might  have  jumped  himself,  for  he  ^j 
saw  the  danger  first ;  but  no  such  thought  came 
to  him.  In  another  second  the  pilot  was  plough 
ing  through  a  herd  of  cattle  that  were  sleeping 
on  the  track.  If  they  had  all  been  standing, 
he  would  have  opened  the  throttle  and  sent 
them  flying  into  the  river,  with  less  risk  to  his 
train.  But  they  were  lying  down ;  and  as  they 
rolled  under  the  wheels,  they  lifted  the  great 
engine  from  the  rails  and  threw  her  down  the 
dump  at  the  very  edge  of  the  river.  So  well 
had  the  faithful  engineer  performed  his  work 
that  the  train  was  stopped  without  wrecking  a 
car.  Many  of  the  passengers  were  not  awakened. 


THE  DEATH  RUN  55 


x-  The  trainmen  came  forward  and  found  the 
engineer.  He  was  able  to  speak  to  them ;  he  $' 
knew  what  had  happened,  and  knew  that  he 
had  but  a  few  minutes  to  live.  These  brave, 
\  rough  men  of  the  rail  never  hide  anything  from 
each  other,  and  when  he  asked  for  his  fireman, 
they  told  him  the  fireman  was  dead. 

As  he  lay  there  in  the  moonlight,  with  his 
head  resting  in  the  conductor's  lap,  while  the 
brakeman  brought  a  cup  from  the  mail-car  and 
gave  him  a  drink  of  water,  he  told  them  where 
he  wanted  to  be  buried,  —  back  East  some 
where  ;  spoke  of  his  insurance  policy ;  left  a 
loving  message  for  his  wife ;  and  then,  as  if  he 
had  nothing  more  to  say  or  do,  closed  his  eyes, 
folded  his  hands  over  his  brave  heart,  and  with 
out  a  murmur  —  apparently  without  pain  — 
died. 

It  was  many  hours  before  they  found  the  fire 
man.  When  the  crash  came,  he  was  standing 
in  front  of  the  furnace  door.  The  tank  doubled 
forward  and  forced  him  up  against  the  boiler- 
head,  where,  if  he  had  not  been  killed  instantly, 
he  must  have  been  slowly  roasted.  He  lay  in 
the  wreck  so  long  that,  when  they  got  him  out, 


56  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

there  was  a  deep  and  ugly  groove  across  his 
face,  where  he  had  lain  against  the  narrow  edge 
of  the  throttle  lever.  Save  this  deep  furrow, 
there  were  no  marks  upon  his  face.  But  that 
one  mark  remained,  even  after  the  body  was 
embalmed. 

The  writer  was,  at  that  time,  employed  by 
the  same  company,  and  was  sent  out  to  the 
wreck  to  take  charge  of  the  body  of  the  fire 
man,  bring  it  to  Denver,  and  then  take  it  back 
to  the  farm  at  Salina.  The  travelling  engineer 
went  out  with  a  special  engine  and  the  superin 
tendent's  private  car,  and  I  went  with  him. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  task  to  deliver  the  dead 
to  bereaved  relatives;  but  it  is  the  least  that 
can  be  done,  and  some  one  must  do  it.  The 
engine  left  the  track  precisely  at  midnight, 
Friday  night,  and  it  was  not  until  the  after 
noon  of  the  following  Tuesday  that  I  reached 
Salina. 

There  had  been  six  children  in  this  happy 
family,  three  boys  and  three  girls.  The  eldest 
son  was  a  locomotive  engineer,  but  he  had  left 
the  road  for  good,  and  was  now  with  the  family 
at  the  Kansas  farm. 


THE  DEATH  RUN  57 

"How  does  he  look?"  asked  the  engineer, 
when  we  had  taken  seats  in  the  farm  carriage. 
"Can  mother  see  him?" 

"  He  looks  very  well,"  said  I ;  and  then^ 
remembering  that  ugly  furrow  in  his  face,  "  but 
would  it  not  be  better  for  all  of  you  to  remem 
ber  him  just  as  he  left  home?  " 

"  I  shall  leave  that  all  to  you,"  he  said,  while 
the  hot  tears  fairly  rained  down  upon  the  lap- 
robe  that  covered  our  knees. 

When  we  reached  the  McConnell  place,  and 
I  went  into  the  house  where  the  family  were  all 
assembled  in  the  large,  plain  parlor,  there  was 
no  need  of  an  introduction.  They  all  knew 
me,  and  knew  why  I  had  come,  and  when  they 
crowded  about  me,  all  weeping  so  bitterly,  I 
felt  that  I  could  not  hold  out  much  longer  my 
self.  I  did  better  than  I  had  expected,  however, 
until  I  attempted  to  talk,  when  the  tears  came 
up  in  my  throat  and  choked  me.  So,  with  a 
little  brother  on  one  knee,  a  little  sister  on  the 
other,  while  the  two  young  ladies  were  sobbing 
by  the  window,  and  the  brave  young  engineer 
was  trying  between  his  tears  to  calm  his  mother, 
I  gave  way,  and  wept  with  the  rest. 


58  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

When  we  had  all  gained  the  little  relief  that 
always  comes  with  a  shower  of  tears,  the  mother 
began    to    talk  to  me  and  ask  questions.     To 
begin  with,  she  asked  me  if  I  could  tell  her 
exactly  when  her  boy  was  killed. 
"Last  Friday  night,"  I  said. 
"What   time?"    she  asked,  glancing  at  her 
two  daughters,  who  had  turned  from  the  window, 
and  were  trying  to  dry  their  eyes. 

"Almost  exactly  at  midnight,"  was  my  reply. 
"Ah!"    she  said,  bursting  into  tears  again, 
"  I  knew  it !    I  knew  it !  " 

" He  was  killed  instantly,"  said  I ;  "he  never 
knew  what  happened." 

I  said  this  with  the  hope  of  their  deriving  a 
shade  of  comfort  from  the  fact  that  the  dear, 
brave  boy  was  not  roasted  alive,  as  so  many 
engine-men  are. 

"  Not  quite  instantly,"  said  the  weeping 
mother.  "  He  called  me  twice  :  '  Mother  ! 
Mother  ! '  and  I  saw  him  standing  before  me 
with  a  great  deep  furrow  across  his  face." 

Then  she  placed  the  edge  of  her  hand  against 
her  face  to  show  me  where  the  scar  was ;  and 
when  I  saw  her  mark  the  very  angle  of  the  ugly 


THE  DEATH  RUN  59 

groove,  I  felt  a  strange  tingling  sensation  at  the 
roots  of  my  hair. 

"  Has  any  one  written  you  the  particulars  of 
the  wreck?  "  I  said. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "we  have  had  but  two 
telegrams  :  one  from  the  superintendent,  telling 
of  his  death,  and  the  one  from  you  when  you 
left  Denver." 

What  she  said  so  affected  me  that  I  excused 
myself  and  walked  out  to  the  barn,  where  I 
could  think.  I  was  not  long  in  arriving  at  the 
conclusion  that  when  the  177  left  the  track,  in 
that  infinitesimal  fragment  of  time,  the  boy  saw 
that  he  was  in  the  shadow  of  death,  and  his  first 
and  only  thought  was  of  his  mother.  His  whole 
soul  went  out  to  her  so  swiftly  and  so  surely 
that  she  not  only  heard  him  call  her,  but  saw 
him,  just  as  he  was. 

At  the  barn  I  found  the  dead  boy's  father, 
who  had  insisted  upon  his  son's  going  in  with 
me,  upon  our  arrival  at  the  house,  while  he 
"  put  up  "  the  team.  I  thought  his  the  saddest 
face  I  had  ever  seen,  as  he  moved  about  in  his 
tearless  and  silent  sorrow. 

"  Plow  did  it  happen  ?  "    asked  the  farmer, 


60  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

when  he  had  finished  his  chores,  and  we  were 
walking  back  toward  the  house  together. 

"  Hit  a  bunch  of  cattle,"  said  I. 

"In  the  night?" 

"Yes,"  was  my  answer,  "just  about  mid 
night." 

"What  night?" 

"  Last  Friday." 

"Stop,"  said  the  farmer,  touching  my  arm. 
"  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  happened 
here  last  Friday  night  —  and  I  remember  that 
it  was  just  about  midnight." 

Then  he  told  me  how  his  wife  had  screamed 
and  wakened  him,  and  how  she  had  wept  bit 
terly,  and  insisted  that  Johnny  had  been  killed. 
He  had  been  struck  by  somebody  or  something, 
she  insisted,  and  she  could  see  a  great  deep, 
ugly  scar  on  his  face. 

I  don't  know  why  I  did  not ;  but  I  remem 
ber  distinctly  that  I  did  not  tell  them  —  not 
even  the  engineer,  who  was  accustomed  to  see 
ing  such  things  —  that  the  scar  was  there,  on 
Jack's  face,  just  as  his  mother  had  seen  it  that 
Friday  night.  We  did  not  open  the  coffin  at 
the  church,  nor  at  the  grave. 


THE  DEATH  RUN  6 1 

I  remained  with  the  family  at  the  farmhouse 
that  night,  and  with  them,  on  the  following  day, 
went  to  the  little  church  in  town,  where  the 
good  priest  talked  a  great  deal  longer  than  was 
necessary,  I  thought,  for  he  had  it  not  in  his 
power  to  do  John  McConnelt  any  good  by 
talking.  In  a  pleasant  place,  on  a  gentle  slope 
that  tipped  to  the  west,  his  grave  was  made ; 
and  while  we  were  weeping  there,  another 
grave,  in  another  place,  was  being  filled,  hiding 
from  the  eyes  of  the  world  the  body  of  the 
brave  engineer. 


£ljrougl) 


FLYING   THROUGH   FLAMES 


"POOREST  fires  had  been  raging  in  the  moun 
tains  for  more  than  a  month.  The  pas 
sengers  were  peering  from  the  car-windows, 
watching  the  red  lights  leap  from  tree  to  tree, 
leaving  the  erstwhile  green-garbed  hills  a  bleak 
and  blackened  waste. 

The  travelling  passenger  agent  had  held  the 
maiden  from  Normal  out  on  the  rear  platform 
all  the  way  up  the  mountain,  soothing  her  fears, 
and  showing  her  the  sights  and  scenes  along 
the  line.  "Over  there,"  he  said,  "is  the 
sunny  San  Luis  Valley,  and  those  high  hills  — 
that  snowy  range  — when  seen  in  the  golden 
glow  of  sunset  was  called  by  the  Spaniards 
Sangre  de  Cristo,  the  blood  of  Christ.  Far 
ther  to  the  south  and  a  little  west  is  the  great 
silver  camp  of  Creede,  where  it  is  always  after 
noon. 

"  Looking  far  down  the  vale  you  can  see  the 
5 


66  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

moon-kissed  crest  of  the  Spanish  range,  below 
whose  lofty  peaks  the  archaic  cliff-dwellers  had 
their  homes.  Here  to  the  north,  where  you 
see  the  fire  flying  from  the  throbbing  throat  of 
a  locomotive,  is  the  line  that  leads  to  Lead- 
ville,  whose  wondrous  wealth  is  known  to  all 
the  English-speaking  people ;  yes,  even  as  far 
south  as  Texas  they  have  come  to  talk  of  Lead- 
ville  and  the  mines. 

"  Now  we  have  reached  the  crest  of  the  con 
tinent,  where " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  seen  it !  "  chimed  in  the 
maiden.  "  It 's  by  Ernest  Ingersoll,  is  it  not?  " 

"No,"  he  replied,  "this  one  is  by  the 
Builder  of  the  universe,  and,  as  I  was  about  to 
say,  the  water  flows  this  way  to  the  Atlantic, 
and  that  way  to  the  Pacific  Ocean." 

"  Why,  how  very,  very  funny,"  said  the 
"  schoolmarm ; "  but  the  railroad  man  has 
never  been  able  to  see  where  the  laugh  came 
in.  He  was  making  no  attempt  to  be  funny ; 
and,  turning  the  tourist  over  to  the  porter,  after 
assuring  her,  for  the  one-hundredth  time,  that 
accidents  were  never  heard  of  on  Marshall 
Pass,  he  said  good-night. 


FLYING    THROUGH  FLAMES  67 

The  conductor  came  out  from  the  smoky 
station,  lifted  his  white  light  a  time  or  two,  the 
big  bell  sounded,  and  the  long  train  began  to 
find  and  wind  its  way  over  the  smooth  steel 
track  that  should  lead  from  the  hoary  heights 
to  the  verdant  vale.  And  the  gentle  curves 
made  cradles  of  the  cars,  and  the  happy  maiden 
in  high  Five  dreamed  she  was  at  home  in  her 
hammock,  while  the  man  of  the  road  went 
peacefully  to  sleep  in  upper  Six,  feeling  that 
he  had  shown  all  the  wonders  of  the  West 
to  at  least  one  passenger  in  that  train-load  of 
people. 

The  engineer  reached  for  the  rope,  and  the 
long,  low  "toooo  toooo-too  toot "  went  out 
upon  the  midnight  air ;  and  the  women  folks 
whispered  a  little  prayer  for  the  weary  watcher 
in  the  engine  cab,  placed  their  precious  lives 
in  his  left  hand,  and  went  to  sleep  again. 
The  long  train  creaked  and  cracked  on  the 
sharp  corners,  and  as  the  last  echo  of  the 
steam-whistle  died  away  in  the  distant  hills, 
slid  swiftly  from  the  short  tangent,  and  was 
swallowed  up  by  a  snowshed. 

At  that  moment  the  fire  leaped  from  a  clump 


68  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

of  pinions,  and  the  sun-dried  snowshed  flashed 
aflame  like  a  bunch  of  grass  in  a  prairie  fire. 

It  had  required  the  united  efforts  of  three 
locomotives  to  haul  the  train  up  the  hill,  and 
the  engineer  knew  that  to  stop  was  to  perish  in 
the  fire,  as  he  was  utterly  unable  to  back  out  of 
the  burning  building. 

That  is  why  it  appeared  to  the  passengers 
that  all  at  once  every  tie  that  bound  this 
human-burdened  train  to  the  track  parted,  and 
the  mad  train  began  to  fall  down  the  moun 
tain.  Away  they  went  like  the  wind.  On 
they  went  through  the  fiery  furnace  like  a 
frightened  spirit  flying  from  the  hearth  of  hell. 
The  engine-men  were  almost  suffocated  in  the 
cab,whlle  the  paint  was  peeled  from  the  Pull 
man  cars  as  a  light  snow  is  swallowed  by  the 
burning  sun  on  a  sandy  desert. 

At  last  the  light  is  gone ;  they  dash  out  into 
the  night,  —  out  into  the  pure  mountain  air ; 
the  brakes  are  applied,  the  speed  is  slackened, 
the  women  are  still  frightened ;  but  the  con 
ductor  assures  them  that  the  danger  is  past. 

Now  they  can  look  back  and  see  the  burning 
sheds  falling.  The  "  schoolmarm "  shudders 


FLYING   THROUGH  FLAMES 


69 


as  she  climbs  back  to  her  berth,  and  an  hour 
later  they  are  all  asleep.  At  Gunnison  they 
get  another  locomotive,  a  fresh  crew,  and  the 
train  winds  on  toward  the  Pacific  slope. 

The  engine  is  stabled  in  her  stall  at  the 
round-house.  The  driver  walks  about  her,  pats 
her  on  the  neck,  and  talks  to  her  as  he  would 
to  a  human  being  :  "  Well,  old  girl,  we  got 
through,  didnrt  we?  But  it  was  a  close  call." 


i^MM 


#     ofcel  Battle 


A  NOVEL  BATTLE 


ONOW-BUCKING  with  a  pilot  plough  is 
dangerous  business.  However,  there  is  very 
little  of  it  to  do  in  these  days.  Now  a  road 
that  is  able  to  accumulate  a  snow-drift  is 
able  to  own  a  rotary  plough  or  snow  excavator. 
These  machines  are  as  large  as  a  coach  and  as 
heavy  as  a  locomotive.  The  front  end  is  funnel- 
shaped  ;  and  instead  of  throwing  the  snow  away 
it  swallows  it,  and  then  spurts  it  out  in  a  great 
stream  like  water  from  a  hose  at  a  fire.  Inside 
the  house,  or  car,  there  is  a  boiler  as  large  as 
a  locomotive  boiler,  with  two  big  cylinders  to 
furnish  power  to  revolve  a  wheel  in  the  funnel- 
shaped  front  end.  This  wheel  is  like  the  wheel 
of  a  windmill,  except  that  the  fans  or  blades  are 
made  of  steel  and  are  quite  sharp.  As  the 
plough  is  driven  through  the  drifted  snow  by  a 


74  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

locomotive,  —  sometimes  by  two  or  three  of 
them,  —  the  rapidly  revolving  wheel  slices  the 
snow  from  the  hard  bank,  draws  it  into  the 
steel  chest,  where  the  same  rotary  motion  drives 
it  out  through  a  sheet-iron  spout. 

Once  at  Alpine  Pass,  on  a  summer  branch  of 
the  Union  Pacific,  I  saw  one  of  these  machines 
working  in  six  feet  of  snow  that  had  been 
there  six  months,  and  was  so  hard  that  men 
walked  over  it  without  snowshoes.  It  was  about 
the  middle  of  May;  the  weather  was  almost 
warm  at  midday,  but  freezing  at  night.  A 
number  of  railroad  and  newspaper  men  had 
gone  up  there,  eleven  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  to  witness  a  battle  between  two  rival  exca 
vators.  The  trial  was  an  exciting  one,  and 
lasted  three  days.  Master  Mechanic  Egan, 
whose  guest  I  was,  was  director-general,  and  a 
very  impartial  director,  I  thought.  The  two 
machines  were  very  similar  in  appearance ;  but 
instead  of  a  wheel  with  knives,  one  had  a  great 
auger  in  front,  the  purpose  of  which  was  to 
bore  into  the  snow-drift  and  draw  the  snow  into 
the  machine,  as  the  chips  are  drawn  from  an 
auger  hole  by  the  revolving  of  the  screw.  The 


A    NOVEL   BATTLE  75 

discharging  apparatus  was  similar  in  the  two, 
and  like  that  already  described. 

There  was  a  formidable  array  of  rolling  stock 
on  the  two  sidings  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
where  we  had  our  car  and  where  we  camped 
nights.  On  one  side  track  stands  one  of  the 
machines,  with  three  engines  behind  her ;  on 
another,  the  other,  with  the  same  number  of 
locomotives.  You  could  tell  the  men  of  the 
one  from  those  of  the  other,  for  the  two  armies 
dwelt  apart,  just  as  the  Denver  police  kept  clear 
of  the  State  militia  in  Governor  Wake's  war. 

It  was  perfecd^_jnatural  for  the  men  on  the 
different  machines  to  be  loyal  to  their  respec 
tive— employers,  and  a  little  bit  jealous  of  the 
rival  crew ;  but  I  was  surprised  to  see  how 
quickly  that  feeling  extended  to  the  crews  of 
the  half-dozen  locomotives,  all  working  for  the 
same  railroad  company,  and  in  no  way  interested 
in  the  outcome. 

On  the  morning  of  the  first  day  of  the  trial, 
when  the  six  engines  came  down  the  track 
from  the  coal-yards,  a  trainman  stood  at  the 
three-throw  switch,  and  gave  a  locomotive  to 
each  of  the  two  machines  alternately.  They 


76  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

all  knew  where  they  belonged,  and  they  kept 
the  same  place,  each  of  them,  until  the  battle 
was  over. 

There  was  no  betting,  but  there  was  a  dis 
tinct  "favorite"  from  the  start;  and  when  the 
iron  horses  were  all  hooked  up,  the  men  on  the 
"  favorite "  began,  good-naturedly  enough,  to 
"josh"  the  other  crew. 

Mr.  Egan  decided  that  one  of  the  machines 
should  go  forward ;  and  when  it  stuck,  stalled, 
or  stopped,  for  any  reason,  it  should  at  once 
back  down,  take  the  siding,  and  give  the  other 
a  chance. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  the  railway  officers 
and  pencil-pushers  climbed  to  the  storm  deck 
of  the  first  machine,  and  the  commander  gave 
a  signal  to  start.  The  whistle  "  off  brakes  " 
was  answered  by  the  six  locomotives,  and  the 
little  engine  that  brought  up  the  rear  with  the 
special  train.  The  hungry  machine  gathered 
up  the  light  drifts  which  we  encountered  in  the 
first  few  miles,  and  breathed  them  out  over  the 
tops  of  the  telegraph-poles.  At  a  sharp  curve, 
where  there  was  a  deep  drift,  the  snow  plough 
left  the  track,  and  we  were  forced  to  stop  and 


A   NOVEL   BATTLE  77 

back  out.  The  engineers  looked  sullen  as  they 
backed  down  to  let  the  other  crew  pass,  and 
the  fresh  men  laughed  at  them.  The  snow  was 
lighter  now,  so  that  instead  of  boring  into  it, 
the  second  plough  only  pushed  it  and  piled 
it  up  in  front  of  her,  until  the  whole  house  was 
buried,  when  she  chocked  up  and  lay  down. 
Now  the  frowns  were  transferred  to  the  faces  of 
the  second  crew,  and  the  smiles  to  the  other. 

For  two  days  we  see -sawed  in  this  way,  and 
every  hour  the  men  grew  more  sullen.  The 
mad  locomotives  seemed  to  enter  into  the  spirit 
of  the  fight ;  at  least,  it  was  easy  to  imagine  that 
they  did,  as  they  snorted,  puffed,  and  panted  in 
the  great  drifts.  Ah,  't  was  a  goodly  sight  to 
see  them,  each  sending  an  endless  stream  of 
black  smoke  to  the  very  heavens,  and  to  hear 
them  scream  to  one  another  when  about  to 
stall,  and  to  note  with  what  reluctance  they 
returned  to  the  side-track. 

In  the  little  town  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  the 
rival  crews  camped  at  separate  boarding-houses. 
This  was  fortunate,  for  it  would  not  have  been 
safe  for  them  to  live  together.  Even  the 
engine-men  by  the  end  of  the  second  day  were 


7 8  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

hardly  on  speaking  terms.  Bob  Stoute  said 
that  somebody  had  remarked  that  the  265 
would  n't  make  steam  enough  to  ring  the  bell. 
He  did  not  know  who  had  said  it,  but  he  did 
know  that  he  could  lick  him.  After  supper 
that  evening,  when  the  "  scrappy "  engineer 
came  out  of  Red  Woods  saloon,  he  broadened 
the  statement  so  as  to  include  "  any  '  Rotary ' 
man  on  the  job,  see?" 

When  we  went  into  the  field  on  the  morning 
of  the  third  day,  not  more  than  seven  miles  of 
snow  remained  between  us  and  the  mouth  of 
the  Alpine  tunnel,  where  the  race  would  end, 
for  the  tunnel  was  full  of  snow.  All  the  fore 
noon  the  hot  engines  steamed  and  snorted  and 
banged  away  at  the  great  sea  of  snow  that  grew 
deeper  and  harder  as  we  climbed.  The  track 
was  so  crooked  that  the  ploughs  were  off  the 
rail  half  the  time ;  so  that  when  we  stopped  for 
luncheon  we  had  made  less  than  three  miles. 

The  least-promising  of  the  two  machines  was 
out  first  after  dinner;  and  as  the  snow  was 
harder  up  here,  she  bid  fair  to  win  great  credit. 
She  rounded  the  last  of  the  sharp  curves  that 
had  given  us  so  much  trouble  successfully. 


A    NOVEL   BATTLE  79 

But  as  the  snow  grew  deeper  she  smothered, 
choked  up,  and  stalled.  Then  even  her  friends 
had  to  admit  that,  "  she  was  not  quite  right," 
and  tne  engine-men  looked  blacker  than  ever 
as  they  backed  down  and  took  the  siding. 

Up  came  the  rival,  every  engine  blowing  off 
steam,  the  three  firemen  at  the  furnace-doors, 
the  engineers  smiling,  and  eager  for  the  fray. 
As  she  turned  into  the  tangent  where  the  other 
had  stalled,  the  leading  locomotive  screamed 
"  off  brakes,"  and  every  throttle  flew  wide  open. 
Down,  down  went  the  reverse  levers,  until  every 
engine  in  the  train  was  working  at  her  full 
capacity.  While  waiting  in  the  siding,  the  en 
gineers  had  screwed  their  "  pops,"  or  relief 
valves,  down  so  that  each  of  the  engines  carried 
twenty  pounds  more  steam  than  usual.  There 
were  no  drifts  now,  but  the  hard  snow  lay  level 
six  feet  deep.  The  track  was  as  good  as 
straight, —  just  one  long  curve;  and  the  pilots 
would  touch  timber  line  at  the  mouth  of  the 
tunnel.  The  road  here  lay  along  the  side  of 
the  mountain  through  a  heavy  growth  of  ,pine. 
The  snow  was  granulated,  and  consequently 
very  heavy.  By  the  time  they  had  gone  a 


80  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

hundred  yards,  a  great  stream  of  snow  was  flow 
ing  from  the  spout  out  over  the  telegraph 
wires,  over  the  tops  of  the  tall  spruces  and 
pines,  crashing  down  through  their  branches 
until  the  white  beneath  them  was  covered  with 
a  green  carpet  of  tree-twigs.  On  and  on,  up 
and  up,  the  monster  moguls  pushed  the  plough. 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  black  smoke  ;  and 
when  the  smoke  and  the  snow  came  between 
the  spectators  and  the  sun,  which  was  just  now 
sinking  behind  the  hill,  the  effect  was  marvel 
lously  beautiful.  Still,  on  they  went  through  the 
stainless  waste,  nor  stopped  nor  stalled  until 
the  snow  plough  touched  the  tunnel-shed. 

The  commander  gave  a  signal  to  "  back  up  ;  " 
and  with  faces  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  with 
their  machine  covered  with  cinders,  snow,  and 
glory,  the  little  army  drifted  down  the  hill. 
The  three  days'  fight  was  at  an  end,  and  the 
Rotary  was  the  victor. 

But  I  started  to  write  about  pilot  ploughs  and 
old-time  snow- bucking,  —  when  we  used  to  take 
out  an  extra  insurance  policy  and  say  good-by 
to  our  friends  when  we  signed  the  call-book. 
On  a  mountain  division  of  a  Western  road, 


A    NOVEL   BATTLE  8 1 

some  ten  years  ago,  I  had  my  first  experience 
in  snow-bucking.  For  twenty-four  hours  a 
pilot-plough  and  flanger  had  been  racing  over 
the  thirty  miles  of  mountain,  up  one  side  •  and 
down  the  other.  As  often  as  they  reached  the 
foot  of  the  hill  they  received  orders  to  "  double 
the  road." 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  when  the  caller  came 
for  me.  Another  engine  had  been  ordered  out 
to  help  push  the  snow-plough  through  the  great 
drifts,  that  were  getting  deeper  and  deeper 
every  hour.  Ten  miles  out  from  the  division 
station,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  proper,  we 
side-tracked  to  wait  the  return  of  the  snow- 
plough. 

The  hours  went  by,  the  night  wasted  away. 
Monday  dawned,  and  no  news  of  the  snow 
brigade.  All  we  could  learn  at  the  telegraph 
office  was  that  they  were  somewhere  between 
Shawano  and  the  top  of  the  hill,  —  presumably 
stuck  in  the  snow.  All  day  and  all  night  they 
worked  and  puffed,  pushed  and  panted,  but 
to  no  purpose.  Now,  when  they  gave  up  all 
hope  of  getting  through,  they  attempted  to 
back  down ;  but  that  was  equally  impossible. 
6 


82  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

The  heavy  drifts  in  the  deep  cuts  were  not 
to  be  bucked  away  with  the  rear  end  of  an 
engine. 

Tuesday  came,  and  found  us  still  watching 
and  waiting  for  the  snow  plough.  Other  engines 
came  up  from  the  division  station  with  a  work 
train,  and  a  great  army  of  trackmen  with  wide 
shovels.  A  number  of  railroad  officers  came, 
and  everybody  shovelled.  We  had  no  plough 
on  our  side  of  the  hill,  and  had  to  buck  with 
naked  engines.  First  we  tried  one,  then  two? 
then  three  coupled  together.  The  shovellers 
would  clear  off  a  few  hundred  yards  of  track, 
over  which  we  would  drive  at  full  speed.  As 
our  engine  came  in  contact  with  a  great  drift, 
all  the  way  from  eight  to  eighteen  feet  deep, 
she  would  tremble  and  shake  as  though  she  was 
about  to  be  crushed  to  pieces. 

Often  when  we  came  to  a  stop  only  the  top 
of  the  stack  of  the  front  engine  was  visible. 
The  front  windows  of  the  cabs  were  all  boarded 
up  to  prevent  the  glass  from  being  smashed. 
For  three  or  four  days  the  track  was  kept  clear 
behind  us,  so  that  we  could  back  out  and  tie 
up  at  night  where  there  was  coal  and  water. 


A    NOVEL   BATTLE  83 

All  this  time  the  snow  kept  coming  down,  day 
and  night,  until  the  only  sign  of  a  railroad 
across  the  range  was  the  tops  of  the  telegraph 
poles.  Toward  the  last  of  the  week  we  en 
countered  a  terrific  storm,  almost  a  blizzard. 
This  closed  the  trail  behind  us,  and  that  night 
we  were  forced  to  camp  on  the  mountain  side. 
We  had  an  abundance  of  coal,  but  the  water 
in  the  tanks  was  very  low;  but  by  shovelling 
snow  into  them  when  we  were  stuck  in  the 
deep  drifts,  we  managed  to  keep  them  wet. 

For  three  or  four  days  —  sometimes  in  the 
dead  hours  of  the  night  —  we  had  heard  a 
mournful  whistle  away  up  on  the  mountain 
side,  crying  in  the  waste  like  a  lost  sheep. 
This  was  a  light  engine,  as  we  learned  after 
ward,  that  had  started  down  the  hill,  but  got 
stuck  in  the  storm.  For  four  days  and  nights 
the  crews  were  imprisoned  in  the  drifts.  They 
had  only  a  few  pieces  of  hard  bread,  which 
they  soaked  in  snow  water  and  ate.  More  than 
once  during  the  fourth  day  they  had  looked 
into  the  tallow  bucket,  and  wondered  if  they 
could  eat  the  tallow. 

On  Sunday  morning,  just  a  week  from  the 


84  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

day  on  which  I  had  signed  the  call- book,  the 
sun  shone  clear  and  bright.  The  crew  with 
the  big  pilot  plough  had  reached  the  summit ; 
and  now  a  new  danger  confronted  the  lone 
engine,  whose  cry  had  gone  out  in  the  night 
like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul.  The  big  plough  was 
coming  down  the  hill  with  two  locomotives 
behind  her ;  and  if  this  crew  remained  on  the 
main  line,  they  would  be  scooped  into  eternity. 
When  the  storm  cleared  away,  they  found  that 
they  were  within  a  few  feet  of  the  switch  target. 
If  they  could  shovel  out  the  snow  and  throw 
the  switch,  it  would  let  them  on  to  a  spur. 
Hungry  and  weak  as  they  were,  they  began 
with  the  fireman's  scoop  to  clear  the  switch  and 
shovel  away  from  the  wheels  so  that  the  engine 
could  start  herself.  All  the  time  they  could 
hear  the  whistles  of  the  three  engines,  now 
whistling  down  brakes,  back  up,  and  go  ahead, 
as  they  hammered  away  at  the  deep  drifts. 
At  last  the  switch  was  forced  open,  the  engine 
was  in  to  clear ;  but  not  a  moment  too  soon, 
for  now  came  the  great  plough  fairly  falling 
down  the  mountain,  sending  a  shower  of  snow 
over  the  lone  engine  on  the  spur. 


A    NOVEL   BATTLE  85 

We,  too,  had  heard  and  seen  them  coming, 
and  had  found  a  safe  siding.  When  the  three 
half-starved  and  almost  desperate  engineers 
came  to  the  clear  track  we  had  made,  the  great 
engines,  till  now  held  in  check  by  the  heavy 
snow,  bounded  forward  down  the  steep  grade 
at  a  rate  that  made  us  sick  at  heart.  Each  of 
the  locomotives  on  the  side  track  whistled  ;  but 
the  wheels  were  covered  with  ice  and  snow, 
and  when  they  reversed  their  engines  they 
seemed  to  slide  as  fast.  Fortunately,  at  the 
next  curve,  there  was  a  heavy  drift,  —  so  deep 
that  the  snow-train  drove  right  through  it, 
making  a  complete  tunnel  arched  over  with 
snow.  Thus,  after  eight  days,  the  road  was 
opened,  and  eight  sections  of  the  passenger 
train  came  slowly  and  carefully  down  the  moun 
tain  and  passed  under  the  arch. 


an  <®cean 


ON   BOARD   AN   OCEAN   FLYER. 


A  T  midnight  seventy-two  fires  were  lighted 
"^  under  the  nine  big  boilers  of  the  "  Bis 
marck,"  and  shortly  after  a  cloud  of  yellow 
smoke,  rolling  from  the  huge  stacks,  was  float 
ing  over  the  bosom  of  the  bay. 

In  their  various  homes  and  hotels  a  thousand 
prospective  travellers  slept  and  dreamed  of  their 
voyage  on  the  morrow. 

By  daybreak  the  water  evaporating  into  steam 
fluttered  through  the  indicators,  and  as  early  as 
6  A.  M.  people  were  seen  collecting  about  the 
docks,  while  a  fussy  little  hoisting  engine  worked 
away,  lifting  freight  from  the  pier.  At  seven  a 
few  eager  passengers  came  to  the  ship's  side, 
anxiously  inspecting  her,  and  an  hour  later  were 
going  aboard. 

Officers  in  uniform  paced  the  decks,  guarded 
the  gangways  to  keep  intruders  back,  and  others 
of  the  crew,  in  citizens'  clothes,  mingled  freely 


TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


in  the  crowd,  having  a  sharp  eye  for  suspicious 
characters. 

Finally,  the  steam-gauge  pointer  advances  to 
the  hundred  mark.  Noise  and  confusion  wax 
wilder.  The  ship's  crew  is  busy,  from  captain 
to  meanest  sailor,  until  at  ten  o'clock,  thirty 
minutes  before  sailing,  the  sound  of  hurrying 
feet  is  lost  in  a  deafening  hum  of  human  voices. 
All  visitors  are  now  refused  admittance,  except 
perhaps  a  messenger  with  belated  letters,  pack 
ages,  or  flowers  for  people  on  board. 

The  little  hoister  fairly  flies  about  in  a  heroic 
effort  to  lift  everything  that  is  loose  at  one  end 
and  store  it  away  in  the  ship's  hold.  The  pier 
is  invisible,  buried  beneath  a  multitude  of  peer 
ing  people. 

All  being  ready,  the  captain  is  notified,  and 
at  his  signal  the  first  engineer  pulls  the  lever 
and  starts  the  little  engine  whose  work  it  is  to 
open  the  throttle,  the  steam  shoots  out  from 
the  big  boilers  into  the  great  cylinders,  screws 
begin  to  revolve,  and  the  ocean-liner,  with  one 
thousand  passengers,  two  thousand  tons  of  coal, 
and  three  thousand  pounds  of  ice  cream,  leaves 
the  landing. 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER  91 

Hundreds  of  handkerchiefs  flutter,  and  hun 
dreds  of  people  say  good-bye,  with  eager,  up 
turned  faces  that  try  to  smile  through  tears. 
Some  are  sad  with  the  pain  of  parting,  while 
others,  like  Byron,  are  sad  "  because  they  leave 
behind  no  thing  that  claims  a  tear." 

Thirty-six  stokers  take  their  places  before  the 
furnace-doors,  each  with  two  fire-boxes  to  feed. 
There  are  three  stoke-holes,  twelve  men  in  each, 
and  twelve  buckets  of  cold  water,  with  a  bottle 
of  red  wine  in  every  bucket.  As  the  speed  in 
creases,  the  great  ship  begins  to  rise  and  fall ; 
not  with  the  swell  of  the  sea,  for  there  is  no 
swell  and  no  sea,  but  with  her  own  powerful 
exertion. 

When  the  ventilators  catch  the  ocean  breeze 
and  begin  to  drink  in  the  salt  air,  there  is  rejoi 
cing  in  the  stoke-room.  Unfortunately  for  the 
stokers,  the  increased  draught  increases  also  the 
appetite  of  the  furnaces,  that  seem  famishing  for 
fuel. 

After  four  hours  in  the  heat,  semi-darkness, 
and  dust  of  the  furnace-room,  the  stokers  come 
out,  and  fresh  men  with  fresh  bottles  take  their 
places.  Gradually  the  speed  of  the  boat  in- 


92  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

creases.  The  fires  are  fanned  by  the  ever- 
increasing  breeze,  the  furnaces  fairly  roar,  and 
the  second  shift  work  harder  than  the  first. 

If  there  is  no  wind,  instead  of  allowing  the 
stokers  to  drop  dead,  the  engineer  on  watch 
simply  turns  a  lever  and  starts  the  twelve  large 
steam  fans,  and  saves  the  firemen  just  before 
the  bone  buttons  are  melted  from  their  overalls. 

The  steamship  stoker  is  inferior  mentally  to 
the  locomotive  fireman,  but  physically  he  is  the 
better  man.  The  amount  of  skill  required  to 
stoke  is  nothing  compared  to  that  of  firing  a 
railway  engine.  The  locomotive  fireman  must 
use  his  own  judgment  at  all  times  as  to  how, 
when,  and  where  to  put  in  a  fire.  The  ocean 
stoker  simply  waits  for  a  whistle  from  the  gang- 
boss,  when  he  opens  his  furnace-door,  hooks, 
rakes,  and  replenishes  his  fire,  and  at  another 
signal  closes  the  doors,  the  same  whistle  being 
a  signal  to  his  brother  stoker  at  the  other  end 
of  the  boiler  to  fix  his  fire. 

The  white  glare  of  the  furnaces  when  the 
fires  are  being  raked  is  so  intense  that  the  place 
seems  dark  when  the  doors  are  closed.  And 
through  that  darkness  comes  the  noise  of  the 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER  93 

rattling  clinker-hooks,  the  roar  of  the  fires,  the 
squeak  of  the  steering- engine,  and  the  awful 
sound  of  the  billows  breaking  on  the  ship. 
Once  above  all  this  din  I  heard  a  stoker  sing : 

"  Oh,  what  care  we, 
When  on  the  sea, 

For  weather  fair  or  fine  ? 
For  toil  we  must 
In  smoke  and  dust 

Below  the  water-line." 

Then  came  the  sharp  whistle,  and  the  song 
was  cut  short  as  the  stoker  bent  to  his  work, 
and  again  the  twenty- four  furnaces  threw  their 
blinding  glare  into  our  faces. 

With  all  the  apparatus  for  cooling  the  stoke- 
room,  it  is  still  a  first-class  submarine  hell. 

One  night,  when  the  sea  was  wicked,  rolling 
high  and  fast  from  the  banks  of  Newfoundland ; 
when  the  mast  swung  to  and  fro  like  a  great 
pendulum  upside  down,  — I  climbed  down  to  the 
engine-room.  When  the  ship  shot  downward 
and  the  screws  went  out  of  the  water,  the  mighty 
engines  flew  like  dynamos,  making  the  huge 
boat  with  her  hundreds  of  tons  tremble  till  the 
screws  went  down  into  the  water  again. 

In  the  stoke-rooms  the  boilers  lie  crosswise 


94  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

of  the  ship ;  so  when  she  rolls  it  is  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  the  stoker  prevents  him 
self  from  being  shot  head  first  into  one  of  the 
furnaces.  Here  I  watched  these  grim  toilers 
this  wild  night,  and  it  seemed  the  more  she 
rolled,  pitched,  and  plunged,  the  more  furiously 
they  fed  the  furnaces.  What  with  the  speed  of 
the  ship  and  the  speed  of  the  wind,  the  draught 
was  terrific,  and  the  fire  boxes  seemed  capable 
of  consuming  any  amount  of  coal  that  could  be 
thrown  into  their  red  throats.  Though  abso 
lutely  safe,  the  stoke-room  on  a  night  like  this 
is  an  awful  place  for  one  unused  to  such  scenes  ; 
so  terrible  that  a  young  German,  working  his 
way  from  New  York  to  Hamburg,  was  driven 
insane. 

As  the  sea  began  to  break  heavily  on  the 
sides  of  the  boat  and  make  her  rock  like  a  frail 
leaf  in  an  autumn  wind,  the  man  was  seen  to 
try  to  make  his  escape  from  the  stoke-hole. 
For  an  hour  he  worked  in  the  same  nervous 
way,  always  looking  for  a  chance  of  escape. 
At  last  the  ship  gave  a  roll  that  caused  the 
furnace-door  to  fly  open,  and  with  the  yell  of  a 
demon  the  green  stoker  sprang  up  the  steps 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER  95 

leading  to  the  engine-rooms.  Here  one  of  the 
engineers,  seeing  the  man  was  insane,  blocked 
the  way.  The  poor  fellow  paused  for  a  moment, 
and  stood  shaking  like  an  aspen,  while  the  cold 
perspiration  rolled  down  his  face.  Two  or  three 
men  tried  to  hold  him,  but,  without  the  slight 
est  effort,  apparently,  he  cast  them  off,  and, 
running  out  on  the  steerage  deck,  jumped  into 
the  sea. 

All  through  the  night,  above  the  roar  of  the 
ocean,  at  regular  intervals,  came  the  sharp 
whistle  of  the  head  stoker,  and  at  longer  inter 
vals  the  cry  from  above:  "All's  well."  On 
Sunday  morning  when  we  awoke,  the  waves  still 
washing  up  the  steerage  deck  and  the  great 
ship  rolling  from  side  to  side,  we  could  hear 
from  the  stoke-room  the  same  shrill  whistle,  and 
the  same  cry  outside  of  "All's  well."  Then, 
like  a  flood  of  sunlight,  came  the  sweet  strains 
of  the  anthem,  which  the  band  always  plays  on 
Sunday  mornings ;  and  again  the  sea  came  up 
and  closed  our  windows  and  shut  out  the  light 
of  day,  and  the  sound  of  the  sea  drowned  all 
other  sounds,  and  seemed  to  suggest  "  Nearer 
My  God  To  Thee."  The  waves  rolled  back, 


96  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

the  sun  shone  in  through  the  window,  and  the 
hymn  was  heard  again. 

When  the  reckoning  was  taken,  we  were  all 
surprised  to  learn  that  on  such  a  tempestuous 
sea  this  wonderful  ship  had  made  a  mile  more 
than  on  the  previous  day  on  a  summer  sea. 

"  Look  away,"  said  the  captain,  as  we  passed 
an  ocean  steamer  that  seemed  to  be  standing 
still. 

"Is  she  at  anchor?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  captain,  "  she  *s  making  twelve 
knots  an  hour ;  and  only  a  few  years  ago  she 
was  one  of  the  ocean  greyhounds." 

Within  the  last  decade  the  time  between 
New  York  and  Southampton  has  been  reduced 
by  nearly  two  days ;  but  those  who  look  for  a 
like  reduction  within  the  next  ten  years  will 
surely  be  disappointed.  The  Lucania,  with 
thirty  thousand  horse-power,  is  able  to  make 
only  a  little  over  a  mile  an  hour  more  than 
the  Fiirst  Bismarck,  with  sixteen  thousand.  If 
by  nearly  doubling  the  horse-power,  and  with 
twenty-five  per  cent  more  firemen,  we  can 
shorten  the  time  but  half  a  day,  then  indeed 
does  the  problem  become  a  difficult  one. 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER  97 

The  Fiirst  Bismarck  is  502  feet  long,  27  feet 
wide,  and  60  feet  deep,  from  her  hurricane  deck 
to  her  keel.  There  are  nine  huge  boilers,  15 
feet  7  inches  in  diameter,  and  19  feet  long.  It 
requires  130  stokers  and  trimmers,  and  300  tons 
of  coal  a  day  to  keep  them  hot.  They  boil 
down  100  tons  of  water  every  24  hours.  There 
are,  all  told,  55  engines  on  board  the  ship. 
The  steam  that  drives  the  boat  passes  through 
three  pairs  of  cylinders.  The  first  are  43  inches 
in  diameter,  and  work  at  a  pressure  equal  to 
eleven  atmospheres.  The  next,  67  inches, 
working  at  four  atmospheres.  The  third  are 
the  low  pressure  cylinders,  106  inches  in  diam 
eter,  with  one  atmosphere  pressure,  and  a 
vacuum  equal  in  working  power  to  an  atmos 
phere. 

There  are  two  main  shafts,  one  to  each  screw, 
or  propeller,  20  inches  in  diameter,  each  142 
feet  long,  and  weighing  a  ton  for  every  foot  of 
steel. 

There  are  twelve  engineers  and  twelve  assis 
tants.  Over  all  these  men  there  is  a  chief  engi 
neer,  whose  duties  are  similar  to  those  of  a  master 
mechanic  on  a  railway.  His  office  is  a  little 
7 


98  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

palace,  finished  in  beautiful  Hungarian  ash, 
supplied  with  easy-chairs  and  soft  couches. 
There  is  an  indicator  which  shows  at  all  times 
the  pressure  under  which  the  various  engines 
are  working  and  the  speed  of  the  boat. 

When  we  were  ready  to  go  below,  the  chief 
engineer  pressed  a  button,  which,  he  explained 
to  us,  was  a  signal  to  the  engineer  in  charge  to 
open  the  doors  and  allow  us  to  pass  from  one 
room  to  another  ;  for  there  are  water-tight  doors 
between  the  engines.  There  are  in  all  thirteen 
air-tight  compartments,  so  that  if  a  man-of-war 
were  to  stave  a  hole  in  one  side  of  the  Bismarck, 
that  compartment  would  simply  fill  with  water, 
but  would  do  no  serious  damage.  In  fact,  a 
half-dozen  holes  might  be  stove  in,  and  she 
would  continue  to  ride  the  waves. 

If  the  Bismarck  were  to  strike  a  rock  and 
cave  in  six  feet  of  her  bottom  or  keel,  a  solid 
plate  or  false  bottom  would  then  be  reached 
that  would  stand  almost  any  pressure. 

When  a  boat  with  a  single  propeller  loses  her 
steering  apparatus,  she  is  in  great  danger ;  but 
with  a  twin  screw  ship  there  is  absolutely  no 
danger.  By  simply  reversing  one  screw,  the 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER  99 

ship  may  be  steered  as  a  row-boat  is  guided,  by 
holding  one  oar  still,  and  moving  the  other. 

The  electric-light  plant  alone  is  of  interest. 
There  are  four  dynamos,  and  they  supply  a  cur 
rent  for  eighteen  hundred  lamps.  In  addition 
to  the  lamps  in  the  saloons  and  state-rooms,  all 
the  signal-lights  are  electric,  as  well  as  the  lights 
used  in  the  steerage  and  in  the  supply  rooms. 

The  chief  steward  has  been  with  the  com 
pany  twenty- seven  years,  and  will  probably 
be  there  as  long  as  he  cares  to  remain.  There 
are  eighty-four  other  stewards,  who  report  di 
rectly  or  indirectly  to  him.  The  passengers 
are  divided  into  three  classes,  —  first  cabin, 
second  cabin,  and  steerage ;  so  that  three  sep 
arate  and  complete  kitchens  and  dining-rooms 
are  kept  up.  The  food  furnished  for  the  steer 
age  passengers  is  better  than  one  would  expect 
when  we  consider  that  the  company  carries 
them  from  New  York  to  Hamburg  and  keeps 
them  on  board  seven  days  for  $10. 

The  food  and  service  in  the  second  cabin  are 
better  than  at  the  average  $3  a  day  American 
hotel.  In  the  first  cabin  saloon  they  are  per 
fect.  The  stewards  file  in  in  regular  order,  and 


IOO  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

when  a  change  is  made  they  all  march  out, 
keeping  time  to  the  band,  and  making,  with 
their  neat  uniforms  and  snow-white  gloves,  a 
goodly  sight  to  see. 

Each  table  has  its  own  table  steward,  and  at 
the  elbow  of  each  passenger  stands  a  white- 
gloved  under-steward  who  seems  capable  of 
anticipating  your  very  thoughts.  If  a  drop  of 
coffee  is  spilled  over  your  cup  —  before  you 
have  time  to  realize  it  yourself —  both  cup  and 
saucer  are  exchanged  for  one  in  perfect  trim. 

The  regular  dinner  consists  of  from  seven  to 
ten  courses,  and  is  fit  for  the  Emperor.  The 
wines  and  ales  are  excellent,  and  are  forty  per 
cent  cheaper  than  in  New  York. 

In  addition  to  the  regular  meals,  at  eight 
o'clock  every  evening  they  serve  tea  in  the  main 
saloon  to  all  who  care  to  indulge  in  that  stimu 
lant.  After  that,  at  nine  o'clock,  the  band 
gives  a  concert  in  the  second  cabin  saloon, 
which  is  always  attended  by  many  of  the  first 
cabin  passengers.  There,  the  people  sit  about 
the  tables  and  eat  the  daintiest  little  sand 
wiches,  and  some  of  them  drink  the  delightful 
Hamburg  beer,  while  the  band  plays. 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCE^N  FLYER  TO  I 

If  you  are  ill  and  remain  in  your  berth,  the 
room  steward  will  call  a  half-dozen  times  a  day 
to  ask  you  what  you  want  to  eat.  If  you 
remain  on  deck,  the  deck  steward  will  bring  you 
an  excellent  dinner  without  any  extra  charge. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  rough  sea  when  we 
were  shown  through  the  steerage ;  the  women 
and  children  were  still  huddled  in  their  gloomy 
bunk-rooms,  recovering  slowly  from  the  sea 
sickness  of  the  previous  day. 

Cheerless  as  their  surroundings  were,  they 
had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the  count 
ess  at  the  top  was  as  sick,  when  she  was  sick, 
as  they. 

Forward,  where  the  ship's  side  walls  are  close 
together,  the  sailors  sleep.  Here,  when  the 
sea  is  rough,  one  may  experience  the  sensation 
of  riding  in  the  elevator  of  a  sixteen  story 
building,  and,  as  the  bow  descends,  the  sensa 
tion  of  falling.  The  occupants  of  this  rough 
quarter  are  a  rough-looking  lot,  but  apparently 
as  happy  as  cowboys.  Every  sailor  has  his 
regular  ration  of  rum,  while  the  stokers,  in 
addition  to  the  red  wine  they  have  in  the  stoke 
room,  have  kiimmel  four  times  a  day. 


102  TALES  OF  A N  ENGINEER 

Just  back  of  the  sailors  are  the  stores.  In 
the  cold  room,  where  the  meats  are  kept,  all 
the  pipes  are  covered  with  frost.  The  large 
ships  all  have  ice -machines,  and  make  their  own 
ice.  There  are  also  two  large  evaporators,  so 
that  if  the  supply  of  drinking  water  should 
become  unfit  for  use,  drinking  water  could  be 
made  from  the  sea.  The  same  evaporators 
could  easily  supply  water  in  the  same  way  for 
the  boilers,  should  the  supply  run  short. 

Two  things  I  should  like  to  change  :  the  tons 
of  wholesome  food,  delicious  meats,  and  delicate 
sweets  that  are  carried  from  the  tables  and 
thrown  into  the  sea,  I  would  give  to  the  poor 
steeragers.  Every  day  at  dinner,  when  the 
lamps  made  the  saloon  a  glare  of  light,  I  could 
see  these  poor  people  peeping  in  at  the  windows, 
where  the  tables  were  freighted  with  good  things, 
and  it  made  me  sad.  Sometimes  a  mother  would 
hold  her  poor,  pinch-faced  baby  up  to  the  win 
dow;  and  I  could  not  help  wondering  what 
answer  that  mother  would  make  if  the  baby 
were  to  ask  why  they  did  n't  go  in  and  eat. 

After  making  the  steerage  happy,  I  should 
like  to  rig  a  governor  to  the  main  shafts,  so 


ON  BOARD  AN  OCEAN  FLYER  103 

that  the  screws  would  not  "  cut  up  "  so  when 
out  of  water.  I  mentioned  this  to  Mr.  Jones. 
He  looked  at  me  steadily  for  a  moment,  then, 
as  he  allowed  his  head  to  dip  slightly  to  the 
starboard,  a  sunny  smile  broke  over  his  kindly 
face,  and  he  replied,  "Well,  somebody  has 
tried  that  already." 


an 


ON   AN   IRON   STEED 


TTUNDREDS  of  hansom  cabs,  countless  car 
riages,  and  myriads  of  omnibuses  came 
out  of  the  fog  and  filled  the  ample  grounds  in 
front  of  Victoria  Station.  A  solid  stream  of 
men,  women,  and  children  was  pouring  in  at 
the  gates  to  the  platforms  where  the  trains 
stand.  Long  lines  of  people  were  waiting  in 
front  of  the  windows  in  the  booking  office. 
Trunks,  bags,  and  boxes  fairly  rained  into  the 
luggage-room ;  but  the  porters  (short,  stout  fel 
lows)  picked  them  up  and  bore  them  away,  as 
red  ants  run  away  with  crumbs  at  a  picnic. 

To  the  train,  titled  people  came  in  carriages, 
behind  splendid  horses,  with  coachmen  in  high 
hats,  and  footmen  in  yellow  trousers.  American 
millionnaires  came  also  in  coaches  and  tally-hos, 
and  mingled  with  the  plain  English  nobility. 

You  can  tell  the  American  women  by  their 
smart  dresses,  and  the  English  by  their  heavy 


108  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

boots,  red  cheeks,  and  heaps  of  hair.  You  can 
tell  the  London  swell  from  the  New  Yorker,  for 
tliere  is  something  the  matter  with  one  of  his 
eyes.  And  you  can  pick  out  the  duke  and  the 
lord,  for  they  are,  in  most  cases,  plain  and 
modest  men.  There  is  a  noticeable  absence  of 
poor  people ;  for  the  train  is  not  going  to  the 
hop-fields  of  Kent,  but  to  Paris  and  the  Riviera. 
The  American  representative  of  the  London, 
Chatham,  and  Dover  Railway,  in  a  shining  silk 
hat,  a  snow-white  cravat,  and  blood-red  bou- 
tonniere,  and  the  station-master,  are  busy  assign 
ing  small  parties  of  Americans  to  compartments, 
and  larger  parties  to  saloons.  The  Englishman 
travelling  in  his  native  land  makes  little  trouble 
for  any  one.  He  usually  has  his  luggage  aboard 
and  his  porter  dismissed  with  a  scowl  and  a 
threepence,  while  the  foreigner  with  a  smile 
and  a  shilling  awaits  his  turn.  All  the  English 
man  asks  is  to  be  let  alone ;  and  surely  that  is 
not  too  much. 

The  faded  carriages  that  stretch  away  in  a 
long  line  towards  the  locomotive  look  singularly 
small  to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  seeing 
the  heavy  trains  of  America. 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED  109 

And  now  we  come  to  the  locomotive.  The 
stoker  touched  his  cap  when  I  stepped  aboard, 
and  I  noticed  that  he  did  this  every  time  he 
addressed  me.  If  I  asked  a  simple  question 
he  invariably  touched  his  cap  before  he  an 
swered. 

The  absence  of  a  pilot,  or  "cow-catcher,"  as 
it  is  sometimes  called,  makes  the  English  loco 
motive  look  awkward  and  unfinished  to  an 
American.  There  are  no  cylinders,  cross-heads, 
or  main  rods  in  sight,  and  at  a  first  glance  she 
reminds  one  of  a  well-made  stationary  engine. 
Even  her  beautiful  high  wheels  are  half  covered 
with  steel.  Like  a  well-dressed  Englishman, 
the  English  locomotive  looks  best  from  her 
knees  up. 

Above  her  running-board  she  is  scrupulously 
clean,  bright,  and  interesting.  But  even  here 

she  has  a  vacant  look.     There  is  but  one  steam 
*Q 

dome  and  no  sand  box  or  bell ;  she  looks  as 

though  she  had  been  driven  under  a  low  bridge 
and  had  her  back  swept  bare,  and  then  had 
nothing  rebuilt  but  one  dome  and  the  stack. 

In  the  cab,  where  ought  to  be  comfortable 
seats  for  the  driver  and  stoker,  there  are  high 


IIO  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

boxes  that  come  nearly  to  the  window  sills. 
No  matter  how  long  he  remains  on  duty,  the 
driver  must  stand  up  ;  nor  has  the  stoker,  who 
in  descending  a  long  bank  might  get  a  mo 
ment's  rest,  any  place  to  sit,  but  must  stand 
the  whole  way  on  his  weary  feet.  This  is 
simply  disgraceful.  The  precious  lives..  oL 


sands  of  people  are  placed  in  the  hands  of  the 
engine-driver,  and  yet  no  thought  is  given  to 
his  comfort.  I  read,  with  considerable  amuse 
ment,  an  article  in  an  English  journal  urging 
•the  Board  of  Trade  to  provide  medals  as  a 
reward  to  engine-drivers  "  for  duty  ably  done." 
I  would  suggest  better  wages,  and  seats  in  cabs. 
Medals  are  all  right  as  a  mark,  but  even 
titles  are  no  good  when  we  are  dead.  Think 
of  a  man  spending  years  in  learning  a  trade, 
and  then  doubling  the  road  between  London 
and  Dover,  a  hundred  and  sixty  miles,  for  seven 
shillings,  —  $1.75,  or  ninety  miles  for  a  dollar," 
—  just  $3  less  than  an  engineer  gets  for  cover 
ing  the  same  distance  on  a  mountain  road  in 
the  United  States.  The  risk  is  about  the  same, 
for  an  English  driver  runs  four  times  as  fast  as 
the  mountaineer. 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED  III 

Out  through  the  ragged  edge  of  London, 
over  the  Thames,  and  down  the  rail  our  steel 
steed  whirled  us  at  a  rapid  rate.  The  English 
driver  does  not  run  "with  his  hand  on  the 


throttle,  and  his  eye  on  the  road,"  as  we  are 
wont  to  picture  a  locomotive  engineer ;  for  the 
throttle  is  at  the  top  of  the  boiler  head,  and 

t*  ^^--  .^^*^**  "******•••*•* •** "^ *""**^*»—— n^^»— *1^^^*^       m ' "     * '  — J  ^** 

must  be  sought  out  by  the  driver  before  he  can 
shut  off  steam,  no  matter  how  great  the  emer 
gency.  It  does  not  require  a  practised  rail 
roader  to  understand  that  if  the  driver  had  his 
hand  on  the  lever,  he  could  shut  off  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  rail,  and  in  less  than 
a  quarter  of  a  second. 

Five  miles  out  we  stopped  at  a  small  station, 
and  picked  up  four  more  carriages.  Our  train 
was  equipped  with  the  matchless  "  Westing- 
house  "  air-brakes ;  and  they  do  the  work  de 
lightfully  on  these  light  cars.  So  perfectly  were 
they  adjusted,  and  so  smoothly  did  the  quiet 
old  seven-shilling-a-day  driver  apply  them,  that 
the  train  came  „  o  a  dead  stop  with  as  little  jolt 
as  would  attend  the  stopping  of  a  baby  carriage. 

Already  I  had  learned  to  like  our  locomotive  ; 
but  when  we  got  a  signal  to  go,  and  the  driver 


112  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

gave  her  steam,  the  fifteen  carriages  refused  to 
start.  Here  I  witnessed,  for  the  second  time 
"  \p  in  my  life,  the  working  of  the  slowest,  clumsiest 
piece  of  machinery  in  use  to-day  in  any  civilized 
country,  —  the  "  reversing  wheel."  I  had  seen 
it  once  before,  when  the  London  and  North- 
Western's  prize  engine  was  leaving  Chicago. 
When  the  locomotive  fails  to  start  her  train,  it 
is  always  necessary  to  reverse  her  to  get  what 
there  is  of  slack  between  the  cars.  In  this  way 
the  engine  starts  a  car  at  a  time,  so  that  by  the 
time  the  last  car  is  started,  the  locomotive  has 
made  a  quarter  of  a  turn  or  more,  and  the  front 
part  of  the  train  is  in  motion.  With  a  quick- 
working  reverse  lever  this  is  accomplished 
easily ;  but  with  a  wheel  that  must  be  given 
from  seven  to  eleven  revolutions  to  reverse  the 
machinery,  the  process  is  painfully  slow,  with 
out  the  saving  grace  of  being  sure.  As  the 
wheel  revolves,  the  locomotive  creeps  forward, 
stealing  the  slack  from  car  after  car,  so  that 
by  the  time  the  machinery  is  in  the  forward 
motion  the  slack  is  gone,  and  you  are  just 
where  you  were  before  you  began  to  reverse. 
There  was  a  serious  collision  on  the  Great 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED 


IT3 


Northern  not  long  ago ;  a  double-head  express 
train  dashed  into  a  goods  train  that  was  being 
shunted  ;  and  if  the  locomotive  had  "  wheels," 
the  wonder  is  that  more  people  were  not  killed. 
From  Herne  Hill,  where  we  got  the  last  four 
carnages,  it  is  seventy-five  miles  to  Dover ;  and 
we  were  to  make  the  run  without  a  stop.  Just 
about  the  time  our  steed  got  them  going,  she 
dashed  into  a  tunnel  half  a  mile  long.  The 
great  drivers  hammering  the  rails,  and  the 
rattle  of  the  carriages,  made  a  deafening  roar, 
and,  to  add  to  the  torture,  the  driver  pulled  the 


iA 

whistle.      The    English    locomotive    whistle    is 
the^shrillest,    sharpest,    most    ear-splitting    in-    . 

strnmpnt    nf    tnrtnrp    pver     Vipnrrl        Tt     i<5    aHrmf- 

,jV> 


svtrument  of  torture  ever  heard.  It  is  about 
as  musical  as  a  Chinese  fiddle  accompanied 
by  a  lawn-mower. 

As  the  smoke  of  London  began  to  grow  dim 
in  the  distance,  a  beautiful  panorama  of  fields 
and  farms  opened  up  before  us.  As  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach  on  either  side  were  rolling 
meadows  and  brown  fields,  dotted  with  thatch- 
roofed  stacks.  If  the  speed  slackened  as  we 
ascended  a  long  "bank,"  these  rural  pictures 
claimed  my  attention  and  made  me  forget  for 


114  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

the  moment  that  we  were  at  the  front  of  the 
Paris  express.  But  when  we  had  reached  the 
summit,  and  the  world  began  to  slip  beneath 
us  till  the  keen  air  cut  our  faces,  we  were  made 
to  realize  that  we  were  not  losing  any  time. 
Now  we  were  rolling  along  the  top  of  a  high 
hill,  from  whose  flat  summit  we  looked  down 
the  chimney-pots  in  the  village  houses ;  and 
now  dashing  into  a  deep  cut,  where  flocks  of 
frightened  quail  rose  up  and  beat  the  bank, 
or,  caught  by  the  eddying  wind,  were  dashed 
against  the  sides  of  the  flying  train,  as  a  man 
standing  near  the  track  and  grown  dizzy  throws 
himself  beneath  the  wheels. 

A  sharp  curve  throws  our  train  out  on  the 
brow  of  a  gentle  hill.  Below,  through  a  green 
valley,  winds  a  lazy  looking  river  —  the  Med- 
way.  This  is  the  old  town  of  Rochester,  the 
land  of  Dickens,  and  beyond  the  river  stands 
the  old  Norman  castle. 

And  this  is  what  Mr.  Jingle  said  when  he 
saw  it :  — 

"  A  fine  old  place  —  a  glorious  pile  —  frown 
ing  walls  —  tottering  arches  —  dark  nooks  — 
crumbling  staircases  —  old  cathedral,  too  — 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED  115 


earthy  smell  —  pilgrims'  feet  wore  away  the 
old  steps  —  little  Saxon  doors  —  confessionals, 
like  money- takers'  boxes  at  theatres  —  queer 
customers,  those  monks  —  popes,  and  lord  treas 
urers,  and  all  sorts  of  old  fellows  with  great  red 
faces  and  broken  noses  turning  up  every  day  — 
buff  jerkins,  too — matchlocks  —  sarcophagus 
—  fine  place  —  old  legends  —  strange  stories." 

The  red  vines  that  cling  to  the  shoulders 
of  this  rare  old  ruin  glow  warmly  in  the  autumn 
sun.  Only  a  flash,  and  we  turn  another  corner, 
and  the  old  castle  is  lost  in  the  dreary  blond 
brick  houses  of  Rochester.  Now  and  then, 
as  the  train  whirls  through  the  city,  the  tower 
ing  spires  of  the  cathedral  are  seen. 

Away,  away,  the  engine  flies,  and  the  dull 
town  is  left  for  the  sunny  fields.  We  are  now 
entering  the  great  hop  fields  of  Kent,  —  one 
of  the  fairest  counties  in  all  England,  I  am 
told.  Ours  is  not  the  only  locomotive  abroad, 
for  almost  every  moment  we  can  see  another 
train  flying  across  the  country,  always  crossing 
either  above  or  below  our  track.  Out  in  the 
fields  are  other  engines,  great  awkward  machines 
pulling  ploughs,  and  sometimes  trains  of  wagons, 


Il6  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

through  village  streets.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
curve,  around  which  we  swing  at  a  mile  a 
minute,  rise  the  great  spires  of  the  cathedral 
of  Canterbury. 

Here,  too,  are  clinging  vines  and  crumbling 
walls,  old  legends  and  strange  stories.  Here 
are  stone  steps  worn  away  by  pilgrims'  knees,  — 
the  steps  that  lead  from  the  musty  crypt  to 
Becket's  shrine.  Here  sleep  the  murdered 
Bishop  and  the  King.  But  there  is  no  time 
to  dream,  for  we  are  now  whirling  away  towards 
the  water-edge.  At  last  the  driver  shuts  off 
steam,  the  stoker  washes  the  deck  with  a  water- 
hose  connected  with  the  injector  pipe,  and 
remarks  that  his  work  is  done.  His  labor, 
like  his  salary,  is  light ;  for  although  we  have 
been  on  the  road  nearly  two  hours,  he  has  not 
burned  a  half-ton  of  coal.  The  trains,  of 
course,  are  light,  and  that  makes  light  work 
for  the  engine-men.  It  is  all  down  hill  now, 
and  we  fairly  fall  through  the  tunnels  and  deep 
cuts,  till  all  at  once  the  "  silver  streak,"  as  they 
call  it  here,  is  seen ;  and  this  is  the  end  of  the 
first  heat. 

Many  things  bear  the  name  of  "  the  widow 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED  1 1  7 

at  Windsor,"  and  I  was  not  surprised  to  find 
the  Victoria  rocking  restlessly  by  the  dock 
at  Dover.  It  is  surprising  to  an  American  to 
see  how  quickly  fourteen  English  carriages  can 
be  emptied.  I  should  say  that  in  two  minutes 
from  the  time  our  train  stopped,  we  were  all 
aboard.  In  eight  minutes  the  baggage  was 
transferred  from  the  train  to  the  boat,  and  in 
ten  minutes  we  were  leaving  the  dock. 

The  Channel  has  not  the  reputation  of  being 
particularly  pacific,  and  this  was  one  of  her  busy 
days.  In  ten  minutes  after  the  whistle  sounded, 
the  Victoria  was  capering  out  towards  the 
coast  of  France  just  as  an  untamed  broncho 
capers  with  a  cowboy  across  a  corral.  To  the 
disgrace  of  the  London,  Chatham,  and  Dover 
Railway  Company,  she  is  a  side-wheeler.  Ex 
cept  the  reversing-wheel  and  the  seatless  cab 
of  the  117,  this  is  the  only  disgraceful  thing 
I  found  on  the  Dover  route. 

There  are  in  the  Victoria  a  number  of  state 
rooms,  a  splendid  lounging  saloon,  a  ladies' 
cabin,  and  a  "  public  house."  Better  than  all 
these  things,  there  are  the  ever-ready  stewards, 
who  watch  the  women ;  and  just  at  the  moment 


Il8  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

when  life  loses  its  glitter,  and  the  unhappy 
tourist  ceases  to  care,  come  quietly,  wearing 
the  while  a  look  of  deepest  sympathy,  leave 
a  small  regretting  basin  by  her  chair,  and  move 
away. 

I  made  a  short  study  of  a  lord  going  over. 
He  was  not  what  you  would  call  distinguished 
looking,  in  his  large  soft  hat  and  rain  coat,  but 
he  looked  respectable  at  least.  We  had  not 
gone  very  far  when  he  began  to  turn  his  head 
from  side  to  side  as  if  he  had  lost  something. 
Then  he  would  close  his  eye  for  a  spell,  and 
try  to  think.  He  was  the  homeliest  man  I 
have  seen  in  Europe;  and  he  was  constantly 
doing  "stunts"  with  his  good  eye  in  order 
to  keep  the  glass  in  the  other.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  died  or  not,  for  a  sort  of  mala 
rial  feeling  came  over  me,  and  I  lost  interest 
in  everything  except  the  French  coast. 

In  spite  of  the  rough  sea,  we  made  the  run 
from  Dover  to  Calais,  twenty-five  miles,  in  a 
few  minutes  over  an  hour. 

"Chemin  de  Fer  du  Nord "  is  the  first 
French  sign  seen  by  the  voyager  from  England. 
It  is  the  name  of  the  railway  —  or  "  road  of 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED  119 

iron,"  as  the  French  put  it  —  over  which  we 
are  to  pass  to  Paris. 

The  captain  of  the  Victoria  had  given  me 
a  letter  which  contained  a  pass,  —  a  "  permis 
de  monter  sur  les  machines,"  —  and  this  pass 
went  on  to  say  that  I  would  be  "permitted 
to  circulate  or  promenade  on  the  machine 
drawing  the  quick  express  during  one  voyage 
between  Calais  and  Paris." 

Sliding  back  into  my  engine  clothes,  I  went 
forward  to  where  the  locomotive  stood  steaming 
and  sizzling,  ready  to  be  off. 

Just  as  I  reached  her,  the  driver  began  to 
whirl  the  reversing  wheel ;  for  he  had  heard  the 
signal- bell,  and  the  long  train  moved  away. 
I  showed  my  pass.  The  driver  smiled,  and 

waved  me  out  of  the  fireman's  way.     The  cab 

J  '  tJAjA*" 

was  the  same  wretched,  comfortless  cavity  that 

I  hacT  seen  on  the  Dover,  only  not  so  clean. 
The  tank,  or  tender,  where  the  coal  is  carried, 
was  filled  with  slack  and  dust.  As  fast  as  he 
shovelled  into  the  heap  where  the  slack  was 
dry,  the  fireman  turned  the  hose  on  it,  until 
it  was  a  puddle  of  mush ;  and,  to  my  surprise, 
he  shovelled  this  slop  into  the  firebox,  and  kept 


120  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


the  locomotive  howling  hot.  It  would  be  im 
possible,  of  course,  to  fire  an  American  express 
locomotive  with  such  fuel ;  for  there  the  engines 
are  worked  so  much  harder  to  draw  heavy 
trains.  When  we  had  whipped  around  a  few 
curves  I  saw  that  the  best  place  for  me  was 
behind  the  driver,  and  I  stepped  over  to  his 
side. 

There  existed  between  the  engine,  the  engine- 
men,  and  me  a  feeling  of  estrangement  that 
was  almost  melancholy. 

I  missed  the  sleepy  panting  of  the  air-pump, 
and  the  click  of  the  latch  on  the  reverse  lever. 
There  was  no  bell  to  relieve  the  monotony  of 
the  rasping,  phthisicky  whistle.  I  wondered  if 
we  could  ever  understand  each  other,  if  she 
would  respond  to  my  touch ;  for  the  driver 
talked  to  her  in  a  strange  tongue. 

The  engine-men  wore  no  gloves,  and  handled 
the  door-chain  and  hot  levers  as  though  they 
were  wood.  The  driver  held  a  piece  of  burn 
ing  waste  in  his  hand  to  furnish  fire  for  his 
cigarettes.  I  dicl,  not  repxoach  him  or  blame 
hini  for  smoking  cigarettes ;  it  was  the  "  wheel," 
no  doubt,  that  drove  him  to  it. 


ON  AN  IRON  STEED  121 

If  cabs  had  seats,  running  a  locomotive  would 
be  much  easier  in  Europe  than  in  America. 
The  ways  are  all  walled  or  fenced  in,  and  there 
is  no  necessity  for  the  constant  straining  of  the 
eyes  and  nerves,  from  which  American  drivers 
suffer  so  much. 

The  first  stop  is  at  Amiens,  eighty  miles  out. 
There  I  saw  what  I  had  never  seen  before,  — 
women  working  the  switches  in  a  signal-tower. 
There  were  two  of  them,  and  they  appeared  to 
have  the  station  quite  to  themselves.  I  make 
no  doubt  that  they  find  their  work  very  agree 
able  and  interesting,  that  they  are  faithful,  that 
their  homes  are  happy,  and  that  they  consider 
themselves  very  superior,  and  refuse  to  exchange 
calls  with  their  sister,  the  "  bull  whacker." 

At  Amiens  we  met  Night  on  her  way  to  the 
west,  and  I  gave  up  the  engine  for  the  more 
comfortable  carriage.  This  compartment  was 
very  like  the  one  assigned  our  party  on  the 
Chatham  and  Dover,  except  that  it  was  a  trifle 
wider,  and  done  in  tan  instead  of  blue. 

Here,  as  in  England,  the  stations  are  ample, 
with  all  the  tracks  under  cover.  The  trains 
stop  but  five  minutes;  but  the  European  car- 


122  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

riages  soon  discharge  their  passengers,  —  the 
first-class  into  the  buffet,  the  second,  as  a  rule, 
into  the  buvette.  A  brass-hulled  yard  engine 
was  hustling  about,  uttering  shrill  shrieks  in  the 
great  sheds.  The  yard-men  worked  without 
lamps,  and  wore  horns  over  their  shoulders, 
through  which  they  "  conched  "  signals  to  the 
engineers.  The  locomotives  have  no  head 
lights  in  Europe,  sucrf  as  are  used  in  the  States, 
but  there  was  a  hand-lamp,  or  a  lightning-bug, 
chained  fast  to  the  pilot  of  the  "  shunter  "  at 
Amiens. 

After  trembling  away  in  the  twilight  for  an 
hour,  and  an  hour  into  the  night,  the  street- 
lamps  began  to  thicken  by  the  way,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  we  stopped  in  the  great  station 
of  the  Nord,  and  were  in  Paris. 


an  dBartijquafee 


OVER   AN   EARTHQUAKE 


R  more  than  twenty  minutes  the  cab  rat 
tled  through  the  narrow,  stony  streets  of 
Paris,  crossed  the  Seine,  always  interesting,  but 
weirdly  beautiful  at  night,  with  its  many  bridges 
and  countless  lamps  of  every  color,  and  finally 
stopped  at  the  Gare  de  1'Est. 

"  Orient  Express,  Monsieur?  "  asked  the  por 
ter,  as  he  balanced  my  box  on  the  scales. 

"Oui,"  said  I ;  and  then  he  cried  the  weight, 
—  fifty  kilos.  "  Twenty-one  francs,  if  you 
please,"  said  the  man  in  the  baggage-office,  and 
I  flashed  up  my  transportation. 

"Twenty-one  francs,"  the  money-taker  re 
peated,  and  I  showed  my  sleeping-car  ticket, 
thinking  I  had  him  on  the  hip  this  time  sure. 

"  For  the  baggage,  for  the  baggage,"  he  said, 
in  French,  growing  impatient ;  and  I  gave  him 
the  money.  Manifestly  there  was  no  free  bag- 


126 


TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 


gage  on  the  Orient  Express ;  and  the  rate  of 
twenty-one  francs,  173-.  10^.,  or  $4.20  for  one 
hundred  pounds,  eight  hundred  miles,  was  a 
stiff  one. 

To  the  porter  who  freighted  my  trunk  I  gave 
some  sous,  and  saw  him  drop  them  into  a 
locked  box  at  the  door  of  the  baggage-room. 
In  England  the  porters  keep  what  they  get,  and 
it  has  a  good  effect.  It  makes  the  individual 
porter  look  out  for  baggage ;  for  the  more  peo 
ple  he  serves,  the  more  he  will  receive.  In 
France  each  porter  waits  for  the  other,  knowing 
the  division  will  be  equal  at  night ;  and  so  there 
is  nothing  to  work  for.  It  kills  competition, 
this  French  arrangement,  and  makes  the  man 
almost  worthless.  The  moment  you  relinquish 
the  "pourboire,"  the  porter's  interest  in  you 
ceases.  He  simply  heads  you  in  on  the  main 
platform,  where  you  must  work  out  your  own 
salvation.  I  fancy  this  rule  does  not  apply  at 
all  stations,  but  it  certainly  does  at  the  Gare  de 
1'Est,  with  a  very  bad  result. 

The  train  which  I  was  preparing  to  board 
this  bleak  November  night  consisted  of  a 
smart-looking  locomotive  and  five  cars.  Next 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE 


the  engine  there  was  a  sort  of  combination  ex 
press,  baggage,  and  commissary  car,  where  the 
stores  were  kept.  Then  came  the  dining-car, 
one-third  of  which  was  made  into  a  beautiful 
smoking  saloon,  with  great  easy-chairs  put  up 
in  dark  leather.  Back  of  the  diner  there  were 
three  sleeping-cars,  Mann  boudoirs,  and  run 
ning  along  under  the  roof,  above  the  tops  of 
the  high  windows,  in  bold  gold  letters,  was  the 
name  of  the  company  unabridged,  "  The  Inter 
national  Bed-  Wagons  Company  and  the  Grand 
European  Express  ;  "  only  it  was  in  French,  and 
ran  like  this  :  "  Compagnie  Internationale  des 
Wagons-Lits  et  des  Grands  Express  Europeans." 
The  outward  appearance  of  this  company's 
trains  is  similar  to  the  trains  run  on  the  Ameri 
can  continent.  The  cars  are  long,  and  rest  on 
eight  wheels.  You  enter  the  car  at  or  near  the 
end,  and  pass  through  a  narrow  corridor,  from 
which  you  enter  the  compartments.  A  com 
partment  holds  two  or  four  people,  and  often, 
with  the  judicious  expenditure  of  a  few  francs, 
the  voyager  can  secure  a  small  compartment  all 
to  himself,  and  he  is  quite  as  secluded  and  com 
fortable  as  he  would  be  in  the  state-room  of  a 


128  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 


Pullman  or  Wagner.  There  are  certainly  many 
advantages  in  a  compartment  sleeper.  A  man 
travelling  with  his  wife  has  only  to  provide  him 
self  with  two  tickets  and  secure  a  compartment 
all  to  themselves.  Two  ladies  travelling  together 
would  have  the  same  advantage. 

There  is  no  rush  or  excitement,  no  one  ap 
pears  to  be  in  any  hurry.  Three  or  four  por 
ters  come  along,  leisurely  rolling  a  little  iron 
car  containing  a  small  canvas  travelling-bag. 
Other  porters  —  not  in  uniform  —  come  with 
hot-water  cans,  —  long  flat  cans  which  they 
slide  into  the  compartments  of  ordinary  Euro 
pean  coaches;  but  the  Orient  is  heated  by 
steam.  Now  comes  a  truck  with  a  great  many 
mail- bags,  which  are  put  into  the  rear  car.  The 
mails  are  an  important  item  to  the  railways,  and 
as  this  train  leaves  Paris  but  twice  a  week,  they 
are  usually  heavy.  In  half  an  hour  the  splendid 
train  is  trembling  away  in  the  night.  It  is 
seven  o'clock,  and  the  dining-car  is  filled  with 
people,  —  men  and  women  from  every  corner 
of  the  earth.  If  a  Russian  speaks  to  an  Italian, 
or  a  German  to  a  Spaniard,  it  is  almost  invaria 
bly  in  French. 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE  129 

All  the  reading  matter  belonging  to  the  train 
is  printed  in  three  languages ;  but  only  French 
is  spoken,  save  when  another  language  is  abso 
lutely  necessary.  The  cards  posted  in  the  cars 
have  these  headings:  "AVIS,"  "  NOTIZ," 
"NOTICE." 

The  dining-car  service  is  equal  to  the  best  in 
any  country,  and  the  rates  are  reasonable.    The 
first-breakfast  is  the  regulation  European  bill,  — 
bread,  butter,  and  coffee,  with  fruit  if  you  want  \  1  - 
it,  for  i/.  75/  (is.  5//.,  or  35  cents). 

At  eleven  o'clock  they  serve  a  good  dejeuner 
for  five  francs,  —  a  dollar,  —  and  at  evening  a 
splendid  dinner  for  six  francs;  so  you  have 
three  good  meals  for  $2.55,  which  in  America, 
in  the  average  dining-car,  would  cost  three 
dollars. 

When  dinner  is  over,  the  men  lounge  in  the 
smoking-room  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  then 
go  to  their  '  boudoirs.' 

In  a  few  hours  we  were  rolling  away  toward 
the  selvage  of  France  over  a  smooth  track. 
Shortly  after  midnight  I  was  awakened  by  a 
commotion  at  my  door,  opened  my  eyes,  and 
beheld  an  officer  in  the  corridor.  He  was 
9 


130  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

grand  beyond  description.  With  every  move 
ment  of  the  train  he  flashed  back  to  me  the 
flickering  light  that  went  out  of  my  compart 
ment  to  his  plated  person.  In  addition  to  the 
cord  on  his  cap  and  his  brilliant  buttons,  he 
wore  festooned  about  his  breast  enough  gold 
cable  to  rope  a  steer;  and  I  knew  then  that 
we  were  in  Germany.  This  awe-inspiring  indi 
vidual  stood  without,  while  his  assistant,  a  less 
imposing  personage,  inspected  my  ticket  and 
hand-luggage. 

We  left  Paris  at  6.50  p.  M.,  and  at  noon  the 
next  day  we  were  at  Munich.  Half-way  between 
noon  and  night  we  were  rolling  along  the  banks 
of  a  beautiful  river,  near  the  edge  of  Austria. 
It  was  a  clear,  sparkling  stream  such  as  run 
rapidly  down  from  the  hills,  and  far  to  the 
south  we  could  see  the  mountains  wearing 
their  first  white  robe  of  winter,  and  stabbing 
the  blue  sky  with  their  polished  peaks. 

When  the  train  stops  at  a  station  of  any 
importance,  an  officer  with  a  large  book,  fol 
lowed  by  two  or  three  assistants,  goes  to  the 
locomotive,  secures  the  autograph  of  the  engi 
neer,  and  gives  him  a  lot  of  vocal  instructions. 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE  131 

They  all  talk  at  once,  "  kracking  "  their  £'s  till 
one  is  reminded  of  a  skating  party  breaking 
through  the  ice.  Finally  peace  is  declared, 
they  all  salute,  and  the  train  moves  on.  Every 
thing  has  a  military  air  about  it.  The  old 
woman  sweeping  a  crossing  brings  her  broom 
to  her  shoulder,  and  the  one-legged  watchman 
comes  to  the  proper  position,  with  a  red  flag 
for  a  musket,  as  the  train  goes  by. 

Twenty-four  hours  takes  the  traveller  to 
Vienna,  1,402  kilometres,  —  over  800  miles, — 
which  is  very  good  speed. 

The  locomotives  used  in  Austria  are  more 
like  American  machines  than  those  of  England 
and  France,  and  the  day-cars  are  the  best  I 
have  seen  on  the  Continent.  They  are  heavier 
than  the  ordinary  European  railway  carriage, 
and  rest  on  eight  large  wheels.  First-class 
carriages  are  heavily  padded  with  beautiful 
Russian  leather,  clean,  cool,  and  comfortable. 
You  enter  these  cars,  not  at  the  side  nor  at 
the  end,  but  at  the  corner;  the  compartments 
open  into  a  corridor. 

Leaving  Vienna,  you  pass  through  a  great 
valley,  or  prairie,  where  farmers  follow  bull- 


132  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

teams  down  the  dark  furrows  that  seem  never 
to  end,  but  disappear  at  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 
The  vastness  of  the  fields,  and  the  houses  so  far 
apart,  give  the  land  an  air  of  desolation. 

At  midnight  we  were  at  Budapest,  the  beau 
tiful  capital  of  Hungary,  with  a  splendid  king's 
palace  on  the  Danube ;  but  there  is  no  king 
there :  the  king  is  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  and 
lives  at  Vienna.  Here  are  more  strange-looking 
people,  and  the  signs  and  notices  are  printed 
in  four  tongues.  Twenty  minutes  for  another 
language. 

Dropping  down  the  Danube  for  six  or  seven 
hours,  we  see  the  sun  rise  in  Servia,  and  the 
first  stop  on  the  following  day  is  at  Belgrade. 

Farther  to  the  south,  it  is  warmer  here ;  the 
earth  is  dry,  and  the  sky  clear.  Here  the 
voyager  begins  to  feel  that  he  is  in  a  new  world, 
with  strange  people.  Here  are  evidences  of 
dress  reform.  The  pantaloon  is  merging  into 
the  gown,  or  the  gown  into  the  pantaloon,  per 
haps,  as  it  is  in  America.  Each  succeeding 
hour  takes  the  traveller  farther  into  this  desolate 
country,  so  old  and  yet  so  new,  with  so  little 
of  what  are  now  regarded  as  signs  of  civilization. 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE  133 

Here  prosperity  and  poverty  appear  to  meet 
and  pass.  A  wild-looking  shepherd,  in  his  coat 
of  wool,  gazing  at  the  train,  reminds  me  of  the 
lone  wolf  as  I  have  seen  him  stand  in  my  native 
land,  watching  the  train  with  nothing  near  him 
but  solitude  and  God. 

In  the  low,  stone-fenced  corrals  are  stacks  of 
fine  oak-brush,  cut  from  the  gentle  hills,  evi 
dently  in  summer  when  the  leaves  were  green ; 
and  this  brush  is  to  be  given  to  the  frail  horses, 
cows,  and  donkeys  for  hay.  These  stacks  of 
bushes  tell  more  than  enough  of  the  poverty  of 
the  country.  When  we  have  travelled  through 
it,  we  wonder  how  the  International  Sleeping- 
Car  Company  can  afford  to  run  a  train  even 
twice  a  week  through  such  a  land. 

At  noon  we  met  and  passed  the  west-bound 
train.  It  may  be  that  we  had  passed  other 
trains ;  but  this  was  the  first  passenger  train  I 
had  seen  for  forty  hours. 

I  carried  with  me  a  permit  to  ride  on  the 
locomotive  of  the  Orient  Express  when  I  wished 
to  do  so,  and  now  I  slipped  into  my  engine 
clothes  and  mounted  the  machine.  The  engi 
neer  was  a  native  j  and  about  all  we  could  say  to 
each  other  was  "  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  in  French. 


TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 


Nearly,  if  not  all,  the  railroads  here  are  oper 
ated  by  the  Governments  of  the  various  countries 
through  which  they  pass.  The  Orient  express, 
however,  is  operated  solely  By  the  Sleeping-Car 
Company.  This  company's  conductor,  who  goes 
all  the  way  from  Paris  to  Constantinople,  is  the 
captain  of  the  train ;  only  the  Government  in 
spectors  of  the  different  countries  come  aboard 
to  inspect  baggage  and  look  after  the  interest 
of  the  Government.  The  railway  fare  from  Paris 
to  Constantinople  by  the  Orient  Express,  a  train 
de  luxe,  is  sixty-nine  dollars ;  the  sleeping-car 
ticket  is  eighteen  dollars. 

The  track  was  only  fair,  but  the  locomotive 
was  in  good  condition.  The  time  is  slow,  not 
more  than  twenty  or  thirty  miles  an  hour. 

At  the  first  road  crossing  outside  the  town 
we  found  a  long  line  of  wagons  drawn  by  small 
cattle,  waiting  at  the  closed  gate.  Behind  these 
wagons,  reaching  far  out  to  the  hills,  miles 
away,  were  strings  of  pack  animals  loaded  with 
corn  on  the  stalk.  Evidently  this  was  an  im 
portant  market  for  the  surrounding  country. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  soft  as  Septem 
ber  in  Paris  or  New  York.  The  road  here  ran 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE  135 

up  a  broad  vale,  which,  however,  grew  narrower 
as  we  ascended  the  waterless  stream.  On  either 
side  the  wash,  the  country  grew  rough ;  the  hills 
in  the  distance  would  be  called  mountains  in 
the  Holy  Land.  The  wagon  road  lay  parallel 
with  the  railway,  and  in  half  an  hour  we  passed 
hundreds  of  ox  teams  bringing  wood  down  from 
the  hills.  Some  women  and  children  were 
driving  a  flock  of  turkeys,  a  man  was  leading  a 
sheep,  and  others  were  carrying  jars  of  some 
thing  —  honey  perhaps  —  on  their  heads. 

All  at  once  the  air  grew  still ;  an  oppressive 
silence  seemed  to  hang  on  vale  and  hill,  and 
all  the  people  stopped  short.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  we  had  run  into  a  bad  piece  of  track,  or 
that  our  train  had  suddenly  quickened  its  pace. 
I  saw  a  Servian  woman,  with  a  little  child 
on  her  arm,  stagger,  stop,  take  the  water-jug 
from  her  head,  and  hug  her  frightened  babe  to 
her  naked  breast.  Hundreds  of  yoked  cattle 
were  lowing,  burros  were  braying,  and  whole 
flocks  of  sheep  were  crying  on  the  distant 
downs.  Meantime  the  curves  seemed  to  in 
crease  ;  and  although  we  were  not  making  more 
than  forty  miles  an  hour,  we  appeared  to  fairly 


136  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

fly.  Men  stood  still  and  stared  at  the  heavens. 
A  Mohammedan  slid  down  from  a  pack-mule, 
spread  his  prayer-rug,  set  his  face  toward  Mecca, 
and  prayed.  Christians  crossed  themselves,  and 
as  often  as  I  stole  a  glance  at  the  driver  I  found 
him  looking  at  me.  Till  now,  I  had  attributed 
the  action  of  these  wild  people  to  childish 
wonder  at  seeing  the  train  sweep  by ;  but  when 
I  looked  at  the  almost  pale  face  of  the  sun- 
browned  driver,  I  was  bewildered.  The  things 
I  beheld  were  all  so  unnatural  that  I  felt  my 
head  swimming.  Glancing  ahead,  I  saw  the 
straight  track  take  on  curves  and  shake  them 
out  again,  resembling  a  running  snake.  The 
valley  had  become  a  narrow  gulch,  and  from 
the  near  hills  arose  great  clouds  of  smoke,  as 
from  a  quarry  when  the  shots  go  off.  The  fire 
man,  who  had  been  busy  at  the  furnace-door, 
stood  up  now  and  gazed  at  the  driver,  who 
pressed  his  left  hand  hard  over  his  eyes,  then 
took  it  off  and  tried  to  see,  but  made  no  attempt 
to  check  the  speed  of  the  flying  train.  As  a 
drunken  cowboy  dashing  down  a  straight  street 
sways  in  his  saddle,  as  a  wounded  bird  reels 
through  the  air,  did  this  mad  monster  of  a 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE  137 

locomotive  swing  and   swim  o'er  the   writhing 
rail. 

Suddenly  a  great  curve  appeared  in  front  of 
us.  This  time  the  stoker,  who  had  left  off 
firing,  saw  it,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
Again  the  driver  hid  his  eyes,  and  again  I  felt 
my  brain  grow  dizzy  trying  to  understand.  We 
could  hear  and  feel  the  engine  wheels  rise  and 
fall  on  the  twisting  rail  with  a  deafening  sound. 
At  last  she  settled  down,  and  began  to  glide 
away  as  a  boat  glides  down  a  running  stream. 

"  What  is  it?  "  I  asked  of  the  French  fireman. 

"Tremblement  de  terre,"  he  said,  shaking 
himself  violently,  and  pointing  to  the  ground ; 
and  then  I  understood  that  we  had  been  riding 
over  an  earthquake.  The  driver  was  either  too 
proud  and  brave  to  stop,  or  too  frightened  to 
be  able  to  shut  off  steam  ;  I  don't  know  which. 

Passing  out  of  Servia,  we  clip  off  a  corner  of 
Bulgaria,  calling  at  the  capital,  Sofia. 

The  next  place  of  importance  is  Adrianople, 
the  old  capital  of  the  Turks.  It  was  here  that 
young  Mohammed  caused  the  great  cannon  to 
be  cast  with  which  he  battered  the  walls  of 
Constantinople,  and  conquered  Constantine,  the 


138  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

last  Christian  emperor  of  Byzantium,  while  the 
fat  priests  plotted  against  each  other,  and 
the  poor  ignorant  Christians  laid  down  their 
arms  to  cross  themselves. 

It  is  Wednesday  morning,  and  we  are  rolling 
slowly  along  over  a  dreary,  desolate-looking 
country.  All  things  European  are  rapidly  dis 
appearing.  The  old  familiar  battle-cry  of  the 
beggars  of  France,  "pourboire,"  is  changed  to 
"baksheesh." 

Instead  of  section  men  with  picks  and  shovels, 
we  see  by  the  side  of  the  track  dark  Turks  in 
bicycle  trousers,  carrying  rusty  muskets  on  their 
shoulders. 

Here  and  there,  far  apart,  we  find  bands  of 
dusky,  sooty  laborers  burning  oak-brush,  from 
the  sticks  of  which  they  make  charcoal. 

While  we  are  at  dejeuner,  the  train  toils  up 
a  long  grade,  and  finally  reaches  the  summit  of 
a  sort  of  tableland  from  which  we  look  down 
into  the  quiet  Sea  of  Marmora,  sleeping  silently 
between  Europe  and  Asia.  It  looks  more  like 
a  great  lake  than  a  sea,  with  its  sloping  shores 
and  marshy  margin,  fringed  with  flags  and 
swamp- grass. 


OVER  AN  EARTHQUAKE  139 

Now  we  are  entering  a  city  that  seems  very 
old.  The  train  rolls  along  among  the  houses 
behind  a  rain-stained  wall ;  and  when  we  stop, 
we  find  the  platform  crowded  with  red  caps, 
the  cabmen  are  having  a  spirited  argument, 
hotel-runners,  guides  and  dragomans  are  push 
ing  each  other,  a  long  line  of  hammelst  or 
porters,  are  waiting  at  the  customs  office,  and 
beyond  them  a  line  of  miserable  beggars,  and 
this  is  Constantinople. 


2E>artranelle£ 


THROUGH  THE  DARDANELLES 


/CONSTANTINOPLE  may  be  considered  as 
^"^  the  end  of  the  railway  system  of  the  earth. 
Here,  if  you  wish  to  see  more  of  the  Orient, 
you  must  take  to  the  sea.  There  is,  to  be 
sure,  a  projected  railway  out  of  the  Sultan's 
city  into  the  interior,  but  only  completed  to 
Angora,  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  miles. 

The  intention  of  the  projectors  was  to  con 
tinue  the  road  on  down  to  Bagdad,  on  the  River 
Tigris,  through  which  they  could  reach  the 
Persian  Gulf. 

I  had  arranged  to  go  to  Angora,  but  found 
a  ten  days'  quarantine  five  miles  out  of  Con 
stantinople,  and  backed  into  town.  I  then 
made  an  effort  to  secure  from  the  office  of 
the  titled  German  who  stands  for  the  railway 
company  some  idea  of  the  road,  —  its  pros 
pects,  probable  cost,  and  estimated  earnings ; 
but  my  letters  returned  without  a  line. 


144  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

To  show  that  I  was  acting  in  good  faith  and 
willing  to  pay  for  what  I  got,  I  went  with 
Vincent  the  guide,  —  the  only  good  guide  I  ever 
knew,  —  and  asked  them  for  some  printed 
matter,  or  photographs,  or  anything  that  would 
throw  a  little  light  along  the  line  of  their 
plague-stricken  railway ;  but  they  still  refused 
to  talk. 

No  wonder  it  has  taken  these  dreamers  ten     \ 
years  to  build  three   hundred  and   sixty  miles 
of  very  cheap  railroad  ! 

It  was  my  misfortune  to  fall  into  a  little  old 
Austrian- Lloyd  steamer,  called  the  Daphne. 
Before  we  lifted  anchor  in  the  Golden  Horn, 
I  learned  that  her  boilers  had  not  been  over 
hauled  for  ten  years ;  and  before  we  reached 
the  Dardanelles,  I  concluded  that  the  sand  had 
not  been  changed  in  the  pillows  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  I  have  slept  in  the  American 
desert  for  a  period  of  thirty  nights,  between  the 
earth  and  the  heavens,  and  found  a  better  bed 
than  was  made  by  the  ossified  mattress  and 
petrified  pillows  of  the  Daphne. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  breathe  the  foul  air  that 
came  up  from  the  camping  pilgrims  on  the 


THROUGH   THE  DARDANELLES  145 

main  deck;  but   the  first   day  out  we  learned 
that    these     ugly  ^Armenians,  greasy     Greeks,   | 
and  filthy  Bedouins  would  be  allowed  to  come 
upon    the    promenade    deck   and    mingle  with  ' 
those  who  had  paid  for  first-class  passage. 

Poorly  clad,  half-starved,  poverty-stricken 
people  headed  for  the  Holy  Land  came  and 
rubbed  elbows  with  American  and  European 
women  and  children.  Of  course,  one  sympa 
thizes  with  these  poor  miserable  people ;  but 
one  does  not  want  their  secrets.  These  facts 
are  not  put  here  to  injure  the  steamship 
company,  but  that  other  voyagers  may  fight 
shy  of  these  little  old  rattle-traps  of  coast 
steamers,  that  ought  to  be  run  up  a  canal  for 
the  sea-birds  to  rest  on.  This  company  has 
many  excellent  steamers,  and  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  put  first-class  passengers  into  a 
cattle-ship  and  charge  first-class  rates. 

We  left  the  Bosphorus  at  twilight,  crossed 
the  Sea  of  Marmora  during  the  night,  and  the 
next  morning  were  at  Gallipoli,  where  the  bird 
seeds  come  from. 

The  day  broke  beautifully,  and  the  little  sea 
was  as  calm  as  a  summer  lake.  By  ten  o'clock 


146  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

we  were  drifting  down  the  Dardanelles,  which 
resembles  a  great  river  j  for  the  land  is  always 
near  on  either  side. 

The  ship's  doctor,  who  was  my  guide  at 
every  landing-place,  kindly  pointed  out  the 
many  places  of  interest. 

"Those  pyramids  over  there,"  he  would  say, 
"  were  erected  by  the  Turks  to  commemorate 
a  victory.  Here  is  where  Byron  swam  the  sea 
from  Europe  to  Asia ;  and  over  there  is  where 
King  Midas  lived,  whose  touch  turned  piastres 
to  napoleons,  and  flounders  to  gold  fish.  Here, 
to  the  left,  on  that  little  hill,  stood  ancient 
Troy." 

All  things  seemed  to  work  together  to  make 
the  day  a  most  enjoyable  one,  and  just  at  night 
fall  the  doctor  came  to  me  and  said,  — 

"  See  that  island  over  there  ?  That  was  the 
home  of  Sappho." 

And  there  she  sang,  — 

"  'T  was  like  unto  the  hyacinth 

That  purpled  on  the  hills, 
That  the  careless  shepherd,  passing, 
Tramples  underfoot  and  kills." 

An  hour  later,  we  anchored  in  a  little  natural 
harbor,  and  five  of  us  went  ashore. 


THROUGH   THE  DARDANELLES  147 

Beside  the  ship's  doctor,  —  whose  uniform 
was  a  sufficient  passport  for  all,  —  there  were 
in  our  party  a  Pole  and  a  Frenchman  (both 
inspectors  of  revenue  for  the  Turkish  Govern 
ment,  and  splendid  fellows) ,  a  Belgian,  and  the 
writer.  We  entered  a  cafe"-concert,  where  one 
man  and  five  or  six  girls  sat  in  a  sort  of  balcony 
at  one  end  of  the  building  and  played  at 
"  fiddle."  The  main  hall  was  filled  with  small 
tables,  at  which  were  Greeks,  Catholics,  Arme 
nians,  Turks,  and  negroes  as  black  as  a  hole 
in  the  night.  Between  acts,  the  girls  were 
expected  to  come  down,  distribute  themselves 
about,  and  help  consume  beer  and  other  fluid 
at  the  expense  of  the  frequenters. 

The  girls  were  nearly  all  Germans,  —  plain, 
honest,  tired-looking  creatures,  who  seemed 
half  embarrassed  at  seeing  what  they  call 
"  Europeans."  One  very  pretty  girl,  with 
peachy  cheeks,  who,  as  we  learned,  had  for 
several  evenings  been  in  the  habit  of  drinking 
beer  with  a  Greek,  sat,  this  evening,  with  a 
dark  Egyptian,  almost  jet  black.  The  Greek 
—  a  hollow-chested,  long-haired  loafer  —  came 
in ;  and  the  moment  he  saw  the  girl  with  the 


148  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

chalk- eyed  man,  turned  red,  then  white,  and 
then,  whipping  out  a  gun,  levelled  it  at  the  girl. 
Nearly  all  the  lights  went  out,  and  the  girl 
dropped  from  the  chair.  When  the  smoke 
and  excitement  cleared  away,  it  was  found  that 
the  bullet  had  only  parted  the  girl's  hair,  and 
she  was  able  to  take  her  fiddle  and  beer  when 
time  was  called. 

At  midnight  we  were  rowed  back  to  the  boat, 
with  all  the  poetry  knocked  out  of  the  isle 
of  Sappho,  hoisted  anchor,  and  steamed  away. 
On  the  whole,  however,  the  day  had  been  a 
most  delightful  one.  To  me  there  are  no  fairer 
stretches  of  water  for  a  glorious  day's  sail  than 
the  Dardanelles. 

When  we  dropped  anchor  again,  ten  hours 
later,  it  was  at  Smyrna,  the  garden  of  Asia 
Minor.  Here  I  went  ashore  with  my  faithful 
guide,  the  doctor,  and  found  a  real  railway. 
The  Ottoman  Railway,  whose  headquarters 
are  at  Smyrna,  was  the  first  in  Asia  Minor, 
and  was  begun  by  the  English  company,  which 
continues  to  do  business,  thirty-six  years  ago. 
Mr.  William  Shotton,  the  Locomotive  Superin 
tendent,  showed  us  through  the  shops  and  build- 


THROUGH  THE  DARDANELLES     149 

ings.  One  does  not  need  to  be  told  that  this 
propertyTs  managed  t^ttn  English  company, 
—  I  saw  here  the  neatest  shops  and  yards 
that  I  have  ever  seen  in  any  country.  There 
were  in  the  car-shops  some  carriages  just  com 
pleted,  designed  and  built  by  native  workmen 
who  had  learned  the  business  with  the  company ; 
and  I  have  not  seen  such  artistic  cars  in  Eng 
land  or  in  France. 

Mr.  Shotton  explained  to  me  that  they  found 
it  necessary  to  ask  an  applicant  his  religion 
before  employing  him,  so  as  to  keep  the  Greeks 
and  Catholics  about  equally  divided  ;  otherwise 
the  faction  in  the  majority  would  lord  it  over 
the  weaker  band,  to  the  detriment  of  the 
service.  An  occasional  Mohammedan  made 
no  difference ;  but  the  Greeks  and  Catholics 
have  it  in  for  each  other,  as  they  do  at  Beth 
lehem,  just  as  they  had  in  the  dark  days  of 
the  gentle  Constantine,  and  just  as  they  will 
have  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

The  Ottoman  Railway  Company  has  three 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  good  railroad,  and 
Tibpe's  some  day  to  be  able  to  continue  across  to 
Bagdad,  —  though  it  is  hinted  by  people  not 


150  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

interested  that  the  Sultan's  Government  favors 
the  sleepy  German  Company,  to  the  embarrass 
ment  of  the  Smyrna  people,  who  have  done  so 
much  for  the  development  of  this  marvellously 
blessed  section. 

We  spent  a  pleasant  day  at  Smyrna,  with  its 
water-melons,  Turkish  coffee,  and  camels ;  and 
twenty-four  hours  later  we  were  at  the  Isle  of 
Rhodes,  where  the  great  Colossus  was.  It  was 
a  dark,  dreary,  windy  night,  and  the  Turks 
fought  hard  for  the  ship's  ladder.  We  had 
on  board  a  wise  old  priest  from  Paris,  with  a 
string  of  six  or  eight  young  priests,  who  were  to 
unload  at  Rhodes.  Despite  the  cold,  raw  wind 
and  rain,  men  came  aboard  with  canes,  beads, 
and  slippers  made  of  native  wood,  —  for  there 
is  a  prison  here,  —  and  offered  them  for  sale  at 
very  low  prices. 

For  the  next  forty-eight  hours  our  little  old 
ship  was  wallopped  about  in  a  boisterous  sea, 
and  when  we  stopped  again  it  was  at  Mersina, 
where  a  little  railroad  runs  up  to  Tarsus,  where 
Saul  used  to  live.  As  we  arrived  at  this  place 
after  sunset,  —  which  ends  the  Turkish  day,  — 
we  were  obliged  to  lie  here  twenty-four  hours, 
to  get  landing. 


THROUGH   THE  DARDANELLES  151 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  after  our 
arrival  at  this  struggling  little  port,  our  anchor 
touched  bottom  in  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Alex- 
andretta.  Here  they  show  you  the  quiet  nook 
where  the  whale  shook  Jonas.  That  was  a  sad 
and  lasting  lesson  for  the  whale  ;  for  not  one  of 
his  kind  has  been  seen  in  the  Mediterranean 
since.  All  day  we  watched  them  hoist  crying 
sheep  and  mild-eyed  cattle,  with  a  derrick  from 
row-boats,  up  over  the  deck  and  drop  them 
down  into  the  ship,  —  just  as  carelessly  as  a 
boy  would  drop  a  string  of  squirrels  from  his 
hand  to  the  ground. 

The  next  morning  we  rode  into  the  only  har 
bor  on  the  Syrian  coast,  and  anchored  in  front 
of  the  beautiful  city  of  "  Bayroot,"  —  I  believe 
that  is  the  correct  spelling ;  it  is  the  only  way 
it  has  not  been  spelled  ! 

It  would  take  too  long  to  describe  this  place, 
even  if  I  had  the  power,  to  tell  of  the  road  to 
Damascus,  the  drives  to  the  hills  of  Lebanon, 
through  the  silk- farms,  the  genial  and  obliging 
American  Consul,  the  American  College  :  but 
here,  after  nine  days  and  nights,  we  said  good-by 
to  the  obliging  crew  of  the  poor  old  Daphne. 


152  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

It  was  Christmas  Eve  when  we  learned  that 
the  sea  had  quieted  sufficiently  to  allow  ships 
to  land  at  Jaffa ;  and  as  early  as  3  p.  M.  Cook's 
comedian  came  and  hustled  us  aboard.  The 
ship  did  not  leave  until  7.30,  and  we  had  to 
pay  a  dollar  each  for  our  dinners.  For  nearly  a 
week  the  steamers  had  been  passing  Jaffa  with 
out  landing,  and  the  result  was  that  Beyroot  and 
Port  Said  were  filled  with  passengers  and  pil 
grims  for  the  Holy  Land.  All  day  the  Russian 
steamer  which  we  were  to  take  had  been  load 
ing  with  deck  or  steerage  passengers,  poorer 
and  sicker  and  hungrier,  if  possible,  than  those 
on  the  Daphne  were.  It  was  dark  when  they 
had  finished,  and  when  we  steamed  out  of 
the  harbor  we  had  seven  hundred  patches  of 
poverty  piled  up  on  the  deck.  It  began  to 
rain  shortly,  —  that  cold  damp  rain  that  seems 
to  go  with  a  rough  sea,  just  as  naturally  as  red 
liquor  goes  with  crime.  For  a  week  or  more, 
these  miserable,  misguided  beggars  had  been 
carried  by  Jaffa,  from  Beyroot  to  Port  Said,  then 
from  Port  Said  to  Beyroot,  unable  to  land.  And 
this  was  Christmas  Eve.  Not  a  passenger  nor 
a  pilgrim  in  all  that  vast  shipload  but  had  hoped 


THROUGH   THE  DARDANELLES  153 

and  prayed  and  planned  to  be  at  Bethlehem 
to-night.  The  good  captain  caused  a  canvas  to 
be  stretched  over  the  shivering,  suffering  mob 
that  covered  the  deck;  but  the  pitiless  rain 
beat  in,  and  the  wind  moaned  in  the  rigging, 
and  the  ship  rolled  and  pitched  and  ploughed 
through  the  black  sea,  and  the  poor  pilgrims 
regretted  the  trip  in  each  other's  laps.  All 
night  and  till  nearly  noon  the  next  day  they 
lay  there,  more  dead  than  alive  ;  and  the  hard 
est  part  of  their  pilgrimage  was  yet  before  them. 
If  you  have  ever  seen  a  flock  of  hungry  gulls 
round  a  floating  biscuit,  you  can  form  a  very 
faint  idea  of  a  mob  of  native  boatmen  storming 
a  ship  at  Jaffa.  Of  course  the  ladders  are  filled 
first ;  then  those  who  have  missed  the  ladders 
drive  bang  against  the  ship,  grab  a  rope,  or 
cable,  or  anything  they  can  grasp,  and  run  up 
the  iron,  slippery  side  of  the  ship,  as  a  squirrel 
runs  up  a  tree. 

From  the  top  of  the  ship  they  began  to  fire 
the  bags,  bundles,  and  boxes  of  the  deck  pas 
sengers  down  into  the  broad  boats  that  lie  so 
thick  at  the  ship's  side  as  to  hide  the  sea 
entirely.  When  they  had  thrown  everything 


154  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

overboard    that   was    loose    at    one    end,    they 
began  on  the  poor  pilgrims. 

Women,  old  and  young,  who  were  scarcely 
able  to  stand  up  were  dragged  to  the  ladders 
and  down  to  the  last  step.  Here  they  were 
supposed  to  "lay"  for  the  boat  into  which  the 
Arabs  were  preparing  to  pitch  them ;  for  the 
sea  was  still  very  rough.  Now  the  bottom  step 
of  the  ladder  was  in  the  water,  now  six  feet 
above ;  but  what  did  these  poor  ignorant  Rus 
sians  know  about  gymnastics?  When  the  roll 
ing  sea  brought  the  row-boats  up,  the  pilgrims 
usually  hesitated,  while  the  bare-armed  and 
bare-legged  boatmen  yelled  and  wrenched  their 
hands  from  the  chain.  By  the  time  the  Moham 
medans  had  shaken  a  woman  loose,  and  the 
victim  had  crossed  herself,  the  ladder  was  six  or 
eight  feet  from  the  small  boat ;  but  it  was  too 
late  to  stay  her  now,  even  if  the  Arabs  had 
wished  to,  —  but  they  did  not.  When  she 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  that  decided  them, 
and  they  let  her  drop.  Some  waiting  Turks 
made  a  feeble  attempt  to  catch  the  sprawling 
woman,  but  not  much.  Sometimes,  before  one 
could  rise,  another  woman  —  for  they  were 


THROUGH   THE  DARDANELLES  155 

nearly  all  women  —  would  drop  on  to  her  bent 
back.  Sometimes,  when  the  first  boat  was  filled, 
an  Arab  would  catch  the  pilgrim  on  his  neck, 
and  she  could  then  be  seen  riding  him  away  as 
a  woman  rides  a  bicycle.  From  one  boat  to 
another  he  would  leap,  with  his  helpless  victim, 
and  finally  pitch  her  forward  over  his  own  head 
into  an  empty  boat,  where  she  would  lie  limp 
and  helpless,  and  regret  it  some  more. 

I  saw  one  poor  girl,  with  great  heavy  boots 
on  her  feet,  with  hobnails  in  the  heels,  fall 
into  the  bottom  of  a  boat ;  and  before  she  could 
get  up,  three  large  women  were  dropped  into 
her  lap.  Just  then  the  boat,  being  full,  pulled 
off,  and  I  saw  her  faint,  and  her  head  fall  back ; 
and  her  death-like  face  showed  how  she  had 
suffered.  It  was  rare  sport  for  the  Moham 
medans. 

"Jump  !  "  they  would  say  to  the  Christians. 
"Don't  be  afraid  ;  Christ  will  save  you  !  " 

It  was  4  P.  M.  when  the  last  of  these  miserable 
people,  who  ought  to  have  been  at  home  hoe 
ing  potatoes,  left  the  ship.  An  hour  later,  a 
long  dark  line  of  smoke  was  stretching  out 
across  the  plain  of  Sharon,  behind  a  locomotive 


156  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

drawing  a  train  of  stock  cars.  These  cars  held 
the  seven  hundred  pilgrims  bound  for  Jerusa 
lem.  It  will  be  midnight  when  they  arrive  at 
the  Holy  City,  and  they  will  have  no  money 
and  no  place  to  sleep  in.  Ah,  I  forgot ;  they 
will  go  to  the  Russian  Hospice,  where  they  will 
find  free  board  and  lodging.  It  is  kind  and 
thoughtful  in  the  Russian  Church  people  to 
care  for  these  poor  pilgrims,  now  that  they  are 
here ;  but  it  is  not  right  nor  kind  to  encourage 
them  to  come.  It  will  be  strangely  interest 
ing  to  them  at  first;  but  when  they  hava 
seen  it  all,  there  will  be  nothing  for  them  but 
idleness ;  nothing  to  do  but  walk,  walk,  —  up 
the  Valley  of  Jehosaphat,  and  down  the  road 
to  Bethlehem. 


3|affa  to 


JAFFA   TO   JERUSALEM 


JAFFA  was  the  home  of  Simon  the  Tanner, 
whose  house  still  stands,  and  is  now  for 
rent.  It  was  the  shipping  station  of  Jonas  ;  the 
port  where  Solomon  landed  the  cedars  of  Leba 
non,  with  which  he  built  his  extravagant  harem  ; 
and  out  of  the  wreck-strewn  reef  that  frowns  in 
front  of  the  custom-house,  rises  the  rock  of 
Andromeda.  It  was  here  the  poor  lady  was 
chained;  but  it  was  not  the  sea  monster  she 
feared,  but  a  change  in  the  wind.  If  the  wind 
had  blown  from  shore,  and  brought  to  her  the 
faintest  whiff  of  Jaffa,  she  could  not  have  lived 
to  tell  her  tale.  When  you  land  here,  —  which 
you  can  accomplish  only  when  the  sea  is  calm, 
—  you  find  yourself  in  a  narrow,  mean,  muddy 
street,  filled  with  freighted  camels,  hamals,  and 
burros,  through  which  you  are  marched  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  before  you  come  to  a  road 


160  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

wide  enough  to  hold  a  carriage ;  then  you  look 
across  the  street,  see  Howard's  Hotel,  dismiss 
the  carriage  for  which  you  have  paid  a  tourist 
agency  a  dollar,  and  walk  to  your  stopping 
place. 

We  landed  at  10.30,  and  by  10.45  we  had 
become  tired  of  the  sights  and  scent  of  the 
city.  Securing  a  guide,  I  waited  upon  the  chief 
of  the  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem  Railway. 

It  was  Saturday;  the  manager  —  whom  I 
could  not  see  —  said  he  was  very  busy,  but  if  I 
would  come  in  to-morrow,  he  would  be  glad  to 
give  me  any  information  I  desired.  I  went 
straight  to  the  station,  caught  the  12.15  express, 
-and  entered  the  only  first-class  carriage  in  the 
train,  with  a  ticket  for  Jerusalem.  The  road  is 
a  three-foot  gauge,  the  cars  are  narrow,  and 
only  half  of  one  little  pine  coach  is  set  apart 
for  first-class  passengers.  This  space  is  cut  by 
a  partition  making  two  boxes,  six  by  seven  feet, 
for  tourists. 

/  The  train  is  made  up  of  all  kinds  of  cars. 
The  grass  is  green  between  the  ties,  and  the 
scale  that  is  crumbling  from  the  sandstone 
cornice  of  the  station  is  allowed  to  remain 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  l6l 

where  it  falls,  to  be  crushed  under  the  feet 
of  the  travellers.  The  management  is  French, 
with  a  strong  Turkish  flavor^  The  pompous,  .al 
most  military-looking  manager,  and  the  brightly 
umfoTmetr^chef  de  gare,"  or  station-master, 
seem  strangely  out  of  place,  when  you  glance  at 
the  wretchedness  that  surrounds  them.  Here 
is  a  queer  mixture  of  the  frivolity  of  France 
with  the  filth  of  the  Orient.  From  the  time 
you  get  the  first  glimpse  of  the  Jaffa  gare  till 
you  reach  Jerusalem,  the  whole  show  has  about 
it  an  air  of  neglect  like  a  widow's  farm.  They 
^  appear  to  know  as  much  about  railroading  as 
tKe^average  Arab  knows  about  the  Young  Men's 
--,  Christian  Association. 

The  time  was  up,  and  we  were  fifteen  minutes 
over-due  to  leave,  when  I  asked  Howard,  the 
hotel  man,  what  the  matter  was. 

"Waiting  for  le  directeur  de  la  compagnie" 
said  he,  with  a  smile ;  for  he  knew  how  absurd 
it  was  to  hold  the  only  daily  train  the  road  runs 
for  the  General  Manager. 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by,  and  still 
another. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  bustling  among  the 
ii 


162  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

station-hands,  the  bell  jingled,  the  whistle  —  the 
deep-voiced  North  American  Baldwin  whistle 
—  sounded,  and  we  moved  away.  At  the  last 
moment  I  saw  the  handsome  station-master 
hurry  a  well-dressed  gentleman  to  our  car,  put 
him  in,  and  then  swing  gracefully  into  the 
second-class  carriage  immediately  behind  ours. 
A  couple  of  officers  of  an  English  war-ship 
which  was  anchored  off  Jaffa  occupied  one  of 
the  first-class  compartments,  and  now  the  new 
comer  came  in  where  I  was. 

The  train  started  slowly,  and  seemed  to  be 
running  over  a  track  made  of  short  pieces  of 
rails;  but  I  soon  found  that  the  one  wheel  at 
my  corner  had  three  flat  spots  on  it,  and  that 
the"two  rear  wheels  had  but  one.  This  gave 
the  car  an  uncertain  sort  of  movement,  two 
short  hops  and  a  long  one.  I  looked  at  my 
companion  and  tried  to  look  pleased.  He 
frowned.  I  raised  the  window  and  tried  to  see 
what  made  the  car  caper  about  so,  and  my 
travelling  companion  burnt  a  cigarette. 

"Little  rough,"  I  said  as  a  feeler;  and  my 
friend  blew  such  a  fog  into  my  face  that  I  was 
obliged  to  take  to  the  window  again. 


JAFFA    TO  JERUSALEM  163 

"Window  too  cool  for  you?  "  I  asked,  ven 
turing  another  flyer  at  the  Frenchman,  and  he 
scowled. 

Growing  accustomed  to  the  pounding  and 
bucking  of  the  carriage,  I  began  to  looITaf'the 
strange~sc"enes  along  the  line.  On  one  side 
there  was  an  orange  orchard,  whose  trees  were 
laden  with  golden  fruit.  On  the  other  was  an 
olive  orchard,  and  here  and  there  tall  date-palms 
flung  their  banners  to  the  breeze.  In  a  field 
near  by,  a  native  was  ploughing  with  two  little 
thin-legged  blond  cows,  followed  by  another 
team  which  was  a  strange  combination,  —  a 
burro  and  a  bull ;  and  just  behind  that  a  tall 
camel  came  swimming  slowly  through  the  peace 
ful  air,  drawing  a  wooden  plough  which  had  but 
one  handle.  This  is  a  beautiful  valley,  called 
the  Plain  of  Sharon ;  and  if  it  was  farmed  as 
France  or  England  is  farmed,  it  would  be  a 
veritable  garden.  Forty-five  minutes  out  we 
stopped  at  Lydda,  twenty  kilometres  from  Jaffa. 
Here  my  friend  got  out,  walked  up  towards  the 
engine,  scowled,  and  returned  to  the  car.  The 
red-fezzed  station-master  from  Jaffa  came  from 
his  carriage,  just  as  the  station-master  of  Lydda 


1 64  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

came  out  of  the  station.  Their  eyes  met ;  they 
stopped,  clasped  their  hands,  and  you  could  see 
in  a  minute  that  they  belonged  to  the  same 
lodge.  The  Lyddian  tilted  his  head  slightly, 
as  a  hen  does  when  she  sees  a  hawk  high  above 
her;  then  they  unplatted  their  fingers,  and 
rushed  into  each  other's  arms.  When  they  had 
embraced,  the  chef  from  Jaffa  held  the  Lyddian 
off  at  arm's  length,  and  looked  calmly  into  his 
eyes,  as  if  to  say  :  "  Hast  thou  been  faithful  to 
thy  trust  ?  Lie  not ;  for  behold  the  breath  of 
the  high  chef  des  gares  is  upon  thee  and  will 
wither  thee  if  thou  speakest  not  the  truth." 

The  Lyddian  nodded  his  head  three  times 
very  slowly,  and  the  chef  kissed  him  on  the 
right  and  then  on  the  left  cheek.  Another  deep 
blast  from  the  Philadelphia  whistle,  and  my  car 
riage  began  to  scamper  away  like  a  wounded 
hare  in  the  stubble.  Another  quarter  of  an 
hour  brought  us  to  Ramleh  —  old  Arimathsea. 
One  hour  from  Jaffa,  and  this  Syrian  cyclone, 
this  Jerusalem  jerk- water,  has  covered  nearly 
eighteen  miles.  I  dropped  off  as  the  train  was 
coming  in,  and  made  a  picture  of  the  pretty 
little  station.  Ramleh  is  an  old  town,  —  in  fact, 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  165 

everything  is  old  here.  The  railway,  which  was 
opened  only  two  years  ago,  is  old,  and  only  a 
few  people  came  to  see  the  train  go  by.  It  has 
always  been  a  place  of  importance,  for  here  the 
old  caravan  road  from  Damascus  to  Egypt 
crosses  the  trail  trod  by  the  Crusaders  from  Jaffa 
to  Jerusalem.  At  Lydda  I  fancied  I  smelt  a  hot- 
box  ;  then  I  laughed  at  the  idea,  —  a  hot-box 
at  eighteen  miles  an  hour !  It  was  only  the 
odor  of  the  Orient,  I  reasoned,  and  forgot.  But 
now,  as  the  train  stopped  at  Ramleh,  two  clouds 
of  beautiful  blue  smoke  came  up  from  a  coal 
car  near  the  locomotive,  and  floated  away  across 
the  rolling  plain.  The  doctor  of  the  battle-ship 
and  his  friend  the  lieutenant  were  contemplating' 
one  of  these  boxes,  when  I  came  up  and  offered 
to  bet  a  B.  &  S.  that  my  side  would  blaze  first. 

"  Taken  !  "  said  the  game  doctor ;  and  while 
we  were  amusing  ourselves  thus,  my  French 
friend  came  forward,  saw  the  hot-box,  and  made 
a  bee-line  for  the  station. 

The  next  moment  he  was  out  again  with  the 
conductor.  You  could  see  that  the  box  was 
not  the  only  thing  hot  on  the  J.  &  J.  The 
distinguished  traveller  was  beating  his  hands 


I  66  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

together,  pushing  his  nose  sideways  with  his 
front  finger,  and  telling  the  conductor  things 
that  would  burn  the  paper  if  we  printed  them. 
When  he  stopped  to  breathe,  the  station-master 
of  Ramleh,  —  who  had  already  been  hugged 
and  kissed  by  the  station-master  from  Jaffa,  — 
pulled  the  bell,  and  the  train  started.  My  trav 
elling  companion  then  turned  on  the  poor 
station-master  for  having  started  the  train  while 
he  was  busy  roasting  the  conductor.  He  raised 
both  hands  above  his  head  and  rolled  off  a 
succotash  of  French  and  Arabic  for  a  whole 
minute  ;  and  when  he  turned,  the  rear  end  of 
the  train  was  just  disappearing  over  a  little  hill 
beyond  the  switch,  and  the  General  Manager 
—  le  directeur  de  la  compagnie  —  was  left 
behind. 

I  believe  he  must  have  been  glad  of  it,  for 
he  knew  enough  English  to  know  that  English 
officers  were  making  jokes  of  his  railroad,  and 
that  I  was  not  over-pleased  with  the  flat  wheels. 

The  land  was  still  beautiful.  A  little  way 
to  the  south  was  the  broad  valley  of  Ajalon, 
where  Pharaoh  conquered  a  king,  and  gave 
the  ranch  to  Solomon,  together  with  his 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  167 

daughter ;  for  it  was  plain  to  Pharaoh  that 
Solomon  was  wasting  a  fortune  trying  to  create 
a  boom  on  Mount  Moriah,  which  is  in  Jerusa 
lem,  — the  only  place  where  they  suffer  from 
drought  and  mosquitos  at  the  same  time. 

"  Sun,  stand  thou  still  on  Gibeon,  and  thou, 
moon,  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon.  And  the  sun 
stood  still,  and  the  moon  stayed,  and  there  was 
no  day  like  that  before  it  or  after  it."  So  it  is 
written  of  the  valley  of  Ajalon;  and  now  the 
sound  of  a  locomotive  whistle  floats  o'er  the 
plain,  and  echoes  in  the  hills  of  Judaea. 

"I  win  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  presently,  pulling 
his  head  in  from  the  open  window.  "  Mine  's 
burning  beautifully." 

Leaving  the  plain,  we  enter  a  canon  about 
six  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  .up  which  we 
toil  at  a  snail's  pace.  The  country  grows  more 
desolate,  the  hills  are  barren  wastes  of  gray 
rock,  with  not  enough  vegetation  to  pasture  a 
tarantula.  When  we  had  arrived  at  Beir  Aban, 
thirty-one  miles  out,  time  two  hours  and  fifteen 
minutes,  and  the  station-master  from  Jaffa  had 
embraced  and  kissed  the  station-master  at  Beir 
Aban,  first  on  the  right  cheek,  and  then  on  the 


1 68  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

left,  the  cloud  of  smoke  that  arose  from  the 
two  hot  boxes  hid  the  locomotive  entirely.  For 
a  half-hour  the  train  crew  carried  water  from 
the  tank  and  flooded  the  hot  boxes.  The  same 
was  repeated  at  Bittir,  —  even  to  the  kissing 
and  embracing,  — and  we  were  off  on  the  home 
stretch  for  Jerusalem,  which  is  twenty-six  hun 
dred  feet  above  the  Mediterranean.  The  canon 
grows  narrower  as  we  ascend,  and  still  there  is 
no  earth  in  sight,  —  nothing  but  rock,  rock, 
everywhere.  Sometimes  we  can  see  on  the 
sides  of  the  terraced  hills  a  few  rows  of  olive- 
trees,  which,  like  the  scrub  cedars  in  the  moun 
tains  of  America,  seem  to  spring  from  the  very 

Vs^  J  « 

stones. 

The  conductor  —  the  slouchy,  careless,  polite 
conductor—  came  through  the  car  for  the  last 
time,  and  every  one  was  glad  we  were  nearing 
the  Holy  City.  The  train-men  are  all  French, 
and,  like  most  French  people  one  is  compelled 
to  rub  up  against  in  the  churches,  theatres,  and 
shops  of  the  Republic,  —  especially  in  Paris,  — 
they  appear  never  to  use  water,  except  the  little 
they  put  in  their  claret.  There  are  more  foun 
tains  than  bath-tubs  in  Paris.  French  people 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  169 

in  the  lower  walks  of  life  remind  one  of  the 
Mohammedan  making  a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca, 
who  obstinately  refuses  to  bathe  until  he  gets 
there,  —  only  these  people  seem  never  to  get 
there  !  There  's  the  sea  at  Jaffa ;  but  these 
fellows  never  think  of  using  it,  any  more  than 
the  natives  do. 

The  conductor  is  in  keeping,  however,  with 
other  things  pertaining  to  the  road.  Their 
"  cabinets  de  toilet,"  supposed  to  be  built  for 
the  use  of  the  public,  are  absolutely  unapproach 
able.  They  are  as  far  below  those  of  France  in 
the  way  of  cleanliness  as  the  latter  are  below 
those  found  in  England.  I  have  never  seen 
such  inexcusable  filthiness  in  any  country. 
Even  the  Arabs  notice  it. 

The  distance  from  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem,  accord 
ing  to  Howard's  "  Guide  to  Palestine,"  is  thirty- 
two  miles  as  the  raven  makes  it,  and  thirty-six 
by  wagon -road.  No  guide-book  has  been  per 
petrated  since  the  opening  of  the  railway ;  but 
none  is  necessary,  as  the  time  is  about  the 
same.  In  fact,  "  White  Sheik  "  —  Howard's 
Arabian  steed  —  beats  the  train  as  often  as  he 
is  ridden  down  from  Jerusalem. 


170  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

The  distance  by  rail  is  eighty-seven  kilo 
metres  (about  fifty-four  miles),  according  to 
the  time-card ;  and  the  same  makes  the  running 
time  four  hours  and  ten  minutes  :  but  we  lost 
an  hour  to-day. 

The  fare,  first-class,  is  $3.00,  second-class 
$2.00,  and  third-class  $1.25.  The  road  has 
never  earned  operating  expenses,  I  am  told, 
and  never  will,  I  am  led  to  believe.  The  loco 
motives  are  the  best  mountain  locomotives 
made ;  and  that  is  about  the  only  thing  they 
have  to  speak  of. 

I  think  there  must  be  something  in  the 
Brotherhood  of  Station-Masters  prohibiting  the 
sweeping  of  floors  in  stations,  as  they  are  all 
covered  with  sand,  dirt,  and  scraps  of  paper, 
and  things. 

I  travelled  over  a  little  lumber  road  in  Texas 
once,  whose  initials  were  T.  &  S.,  and  the  train 
men  called  it  the  "  Trouble  and  Sorrow,"  and 
sometimes  "  Timber  and  Sand."  I  rode  on 
the  locomotive,  for  it  was  the  first  wood-burner 
I  had  ever  seen.  The  train  was  carded  at 
twelve  miles  an  hour,  and  we  were  losing  time ; 
but  it  was  the  only  time  I  was  ever  frightened 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  I  7  I 

on  an  engine.  The  road  was  so  rough,  and  the 
engine  rolled  so,  that  the  hazel-splitter  hogs 
would  scamper  out  of  the  ditches  beside  the 
track.  In  places  the  track  was  so  sunken  that 
the  ties  hung  to  the  underside  of  the  rail ;  and 
when  the  engine  struck  a  place  like  that,  and 
drove  the  ties  down,  the  mud  and  water  would 
shoot  out  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  fresco 
everything  inside  the  right  of  way.  The  pas 
sengers,  if  they  had  not  been  too  frightened, 
could  have  picked  flowers  from  the  windows  of 
the  rolling  coaches  —  almost.  Till  now,  the 
T.  &  S.  has  been  to  me  the  rockiest  road  on 
earth  ;  but  now  —  it 's  all  changed. 

Now  the  whistle  sounds  deep  and  long,  the 
train  has  reached  the  top  of  the  canon,  the  end 
of  the  gulch,  and  here  before  us,  nestled  in  the 
very  top  of  a  group  of  little  mountains,  is  Jeru 
salem.  The  sun  is  just  going  down  in  the  hills 
through  which  we  came,  and  away  to  the  east, 
beyond  the  Dead  Sea,  the  hills  of  Moab  are 
taking  on  the  wonderful  tints  they  wear  at 
sunset.  They  are  unlike  any  other  mountains, 
in  that  the  crest-line  is  as  straight  as  the  line  of 
the  horizon  on  a  level  plain. 


172  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

How  strange  it  all  seems  !  There  is  nothing 
but  rocks,  and  scrubby  olive-trees,  and  dead- 
looking  grape-vines,  —  and  not  many  of  them. 
The  people  are  strange,  too.  On  the  way  to 
the  hotel,  we  pass  all  kinds  of  people  of  the 
Orient,  —  Bedouins  on  high  horses,  with  their 
knees  cocked  up;  plains-men  on  thin-legged 
Arabian  steeds ;  all  manner  of  men  on  donkeys 
and  on  foot,  —  beggars,  and  even  lepers,  and 
poor  Jews  ;  Jews  with  cork-screw  curls  hanging 
down  in  front  of  their  ears,  and  idle  pilgrims 
who  do  nothing  on  earth  but  walk,  walk  up  the 
valley  of  Jehosaphat  and  down  the  road  to 
Bethlehem. 

The  moment  you  have  seen  it  all,  Jerusalem 
becomes  to  you  the  most  melancholy  locality 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  was  so  with  us,  I 
know;  and  when  the  time  came  to  leave,  not 
one  of  our  party  missed  the  train. 

When  the  Syrian  cyclone  begins  to  descend 
from  Mount  Zion  to  the  sea,  you  are  led  to 
believe  that  you  will  reach  Jaffa  in  about  an 
hour ;  but  when  the  train  has  gone  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  the  careful  driver  reverses  the  engine, 
opens  the  cylinder- cocks,  and  you  think  by  the 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  173 

swish,  swish,  of  the  escaping  steam  that  there  is 
an  open  switch  just  ahead  ;  but  you  are  always 
wrong.  The  truth  is,  they  have  no  air-brakes, 
and  the  driver  is  obliged  to  hold  the  train  with 
the  engine  in  the  back  motion  until  it  is  brought 
down  to  a  reasonable  pace.  When  you  have 
nearly  stopped  you  go  ahead  again,  just  as  you 
did  before,  and  go  on  repeating  the  perform 
ance  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  twenty-five  miles, 
and  two  thousand  feet  below  Jerusalem.  The 
balance  of  the  journey  over  the  Plain  of  Sharon 
is^less  hazardous.  The  engine-driver  is  a 
Frenchman,  and  extremely  careful  and  compe 
tent.  He  never  allowed  the  train  to  get  beyond 
his  control  foFa^smgle  moment,  and  he  riavon 
the  whole,  about  as  difficult  a  run  as  there  is 
east  of  Pike's  Peak. 

At  Jaffa,  as  at  Constantinople,  you  must  take 
to  the  sea  again,  for  there  are  no  more  railroads 
here. 

After  the  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem,  the  P.  and  I. 
is  good  to  look  upon.  This  little  railway 
runs  from  Port  Said  to  Isma'ilia,  less  than  a 
hundred  miles.  The  gauge  is  not  even  three 
feet,  —  which  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  standard 


174  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

for  narrow-gauged  railways  everywhere.  It  is 
only  thirty  inches.  The  locomotives  are  like 
toy  engines,  but  good  ones,  and  the  carriages 
are  beautiful,  —  perfect  little  palaces.  <  They 
are  not  only  neatly  designed  and  artistically 
constructed,  but  scrupulously  clean  and  very 
comfortable.  They  are  narrow,  of  course,  but 
ample  room  is  given  to  each  passenger.  They 
are  so  arranged  that  the  whole  car  may  be 
opened  up,  allowing  one  to  pass  through  it 
from  end  to  end.  I  had  no  time  to  inform 
myself  regarding  the  road's  history,  but  I  was 
told  that  it  had  been  built  and  was  being  ope 
rated  by  a  French  company.  I  hope  so,  for 
the  J.  &  J.  has  rather  disgraced  France.  The 
rail,  which  rests  on  metallic  cross-ties,  looks  to 
be  about  thirty  pounds  to  the  yard.  The  road 
runs,  for  the  greater  part,  along  the  Suez  Canal, 
with  the  sea  on  the  other  side ;  and  the  ride 
from  Port  Sai'd,  if  the  sand  is  not  blowing,  is  an 
interesting  one. 

In  the  shallow  sea  to  the  right  are  myriads  of 
sea-birds  of  every  conceivable  kind,  and  farther 
out,  hundreds  of  sleepy-looking  little  ships  with 
one  sail,  whose  masts  lean  back  like  a  slender 


JAFFA    TO   JERUSALEM  175 

palm  in  a  steady  wind.  To  the  left  is  the 
canal,  upon  whose  narrow  waters  one  sees  the 
flag  of  almost  every  civilized  country,  save  per 
haps  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  which,  somehow, 
one  seldom  sees  at  the  Orient,  —  or  anywhere 
else,  for  that  matter.  Even  at  Constantinople 
the  flag  at  the  embassy  flies  only  on  high  days 
and  holidays,  —  and  not  very  high  then. 

With  all  their  enterprise,  this  company  make 
one  serious  mistake.  They  refuse  to  "  paste  " 
baggage  through  from  Port  Said  to  Cairo,  and 
at  Ismailia  the  traveller  must  hunt  out  his  lug 
gage,  and  have  it  re-weighed  and  re -registered. 
The  P.  &  O.'s  beautiful  new  steamer  Caledonia, 
bound  for  India,  had  unloaded  an  English 
excursion  party  the  day  I  went  down,  and  it 
took  nearly  two  hours  that  night  to  re-weigh  the 
baggage  where  we  left  the  smart  little  railway 
and  boarded  the  Egyptian  line. 

TJhe  Egyptian  state  railways  are  not  bad,  nor 
very  good,  but  they  answer  the  purpose.  Their 
locomotives  are  fair,  their  cars  are  of  the  usual 
European  style,  short  and  light.  They  make 
very  good  time,  too,  for  such  a  slow  country ; 
but  one  must  travel  first-class  always  in  Egypt, 


176  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

to  avoid  smoke,  filth,  and  dirt  of  every  kind,  — 
tfeejELuick  and  the  dead  ! 

If  the  reader  has  ever  ridden  on  the  rear- 
end  of  an  American  railroad  train,  and  is  of  an 
observing  turn,  he  has  noticed  that  the  moment 
the  train  passes  a  gang  of  section-men,  they  all 
fall  to  as  vigorously  as  though  they  were  repair 
ing  a  wash-out,  and  were  holding  the  President's 
special.  "  Poor  fellows,"  says  the  sympathetic 
traveller,  "  how  they  work  !  "  He  does  not 
observe  that  every  Irish  son  of  them  has  one 
eye  on  the  track,  and  the  other  on  the  rear-car 
looking  for  the  roadmaster.  Well,  they  do  that 
here,  and  the  Arabs  did  it  on  the  Jaffa  and 
Jerusalem, — just  as  the  Chinamen  do  in  Cali 
fornia,  and  the  negroes  in  Texas.  Human 
nature  is  much  the  same  the  world  over. 


delations?  of  tlje  C3;mplo^ee  to 
ivatlroao 


RELATIONS    OF    THE    EMPLOYEE    TO 
THE    RAILROAD 


A  S  the  shifting  sands  in  the  bed  of  a  river 

are    constantly   changing    the  channel,   so 

are    the  conditions  of  the    country  constantly 

changing  the  relations  of  the  railroad  employee 

to  the  railroad. 

When  the  country  is  prosperous,  and  all  the 
railroads  are  running  full-handed,  employees 
are  apt  to  air  their  grievances  and  ask  for  a 
raise  in  wages  as  often  as  a  dividend  is  declared. 

—  ^^ ^^*~~*»^^^s***~**1**^ __^— -^^^  ^^ 

When  times  are  hard  and  hundreds  of  idle  men 
are  abroad  in  the  land,  and  locomotives  are 
rusting  in  the  round-houses,  railway  managers 
are  "apt  to  ask  the  employees  to  submit  to  a 
reduction  in  wages  as  often  as  a  fresh  batch  of 
men  are  discharged  and  sent  adrift.  These 
facts  may  not  be  very  complimentary  to  either 
side,  but  they  are  facts,  I  fancy,  all  the  same. 


I  So  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

The  railroad  company  proper  is  regarded  by 
the  average  employee  as  a  mythical  soulless 
something,  ever  invisible  and  always  out  of 
reach.  "The  struggle  is  really  between  the  men 
and  the  management,  —  the  employees  and  the 
officials ;  and  as  they  are  all  employees,  —  from 
the  president  to  the  tie-tamper;  from  the  mas 
ter-mechanic  to  the  poorly-paid  wiper,  —  we 
must  have  a  division  to  begin  with.  Out  of 
this  great  body  we  must  find  the  fighting  forces 
for  two  armies,  absurdly  arrayed,  one  under 
the  flag  of  "  Capital,"  the  other  bearing  the 
banner  of  "  Labor." 

This  condition  of  things  is  all  the  more  incon 
sistent  when  we  remember  that  the  real  fighters 
are  all  laborers ;  only,  one  side  has  succeeded, 
the  other  is  struggling  to  succeed.  And  how 
1ire~we'to  know  them?  When  does  the  "em 
ployee  "  become  an  official?  Ah,  that's  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world.  For  example,  this 
change  in  the  life  of  a  locomotive-engineer 
comes  the  day  he  is  promoted  to  be  travelling 
engineer  or  round-house  foreman.  It  comes 
to  the  conductor  when  he  is  made  superintend 
ent  of  a  division ;  to  the  telegrapher  when  he 


RELATIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE   TO  RAILROAD     l8l 

becomes  a  despatcher  or  train-master.  The 
other  employees  come  in  awkwardly,  congratu 
late  the  new  official,  and  then  go  back  to  the 
boarding-house  and  lock  their  trunks.  Here  is 
a  parting  of  ways.  From  this  day  the  new 
official  walks  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
regarding  the  promotion  (for  which  all  are  striv 
ing)  almost  a  misfortune.  At  the  end  of  a 
week  his  room-mate  leaves  him,  and  he  goes 
also, — to  live  in  a  better  place.  At  the  end 
of  a  fortnight  he  finds  that  he  has,  almost  un 
consciously,  changed  his  mode  of  living  and 
his  associates. 

He  sits  no  longer  in  the  councils  of  em 
ployees,  for  he  stands  for  the  company,  —  for 
Capital.  In  many  cases  he  pays  up  his  dues 
and  takes  an  honorary  membership,  or  with 
draws  finally  from  the  Brotherhood.  He  is  so 
different  in  his  new  place  that  sometimes  he  is 
accused  of  being  "  stuck  on  himself."  I  put  it 
that  way,  for  it  is  precisely  as  the  "  other  fel 
lows  "  will  put  it ;  and  I  have  dwelt  upon  this 
point  to  show  that  there  is  no  mistaking  an  em 
ployee  for  the  "  company,"  which  is  simply  the 
management.  It  would  not  be  just  to  say  that 


1 82  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

the  new-made  officer  deserves  all  the  bad  things 
said  of  him,  nor  would  it  be  right  to  say  that 
the  unpromoted  employees  are  wholly  to  blame. 
They  have  simply  all  dropped  down  the  wrong 
leg  of  the  "  Y,"  and  nobody  has  taken  the 
trouble  to  back  them  up  and  set  them  right. 
Then  |t  is  always  so  much  easier  to  convince  a 
working-man  that  he  is  getting  the  worst  of  it 
than  to  show  him  that  he  is  prosperous  and 
ought  to  be  happy.  That 's  why  the  professional 
agitator  has  such  smooth  sailing.  Man  is  a 
scrappy  animal  at  best,  and  I  think  that  the 
constant  strain  under  which  the  railroad  em 
ployee  works  tends  to  make  him  especially 
irritable,  as  the  constant  watchfulness  of  his 
nature  tends  to  make  him  suspicious  of  signals 
which  are  not  perfectly  plain  to  him. 

The  railroad  manager  at  his  office,  dictating 
letters,  directing  business,  and  hearing  griev 
ances,  is  a  different  man  altogether  when  seen 
attlre  club,  at  the  races,  in  Sunday-school,  or 
at  home  ;  but  the  less-experienced  employee  is 
always  the  same  on  and  off  duty.  He  has  not 
yet  learned  how  to  forget  his  work,  to  put  it 
aside,  and  rest  his  weary  brain.  He  railroads, 


RELA  TIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE  TO  RAILROAD     183 

not  only  earnestly,  but  all  the  time  :  on  the  rail, 
in  the  round-house,  the  barber-shop,  and  the 
boarding-house.  When  he  wants  his  plate 
changed,  he  tells  the  waiter  to  "  switch  out  the 
empty,  and  throw  in  a  load." 

The  little  jealousies  and  animosities  just 
described  exist  among  the  employees  as  well  as 
between  the  man  and  the  managers.  For  years 
the  bitterest  hatred  existed  between  the  Brother 
hood  of  Locomotive  Engineers  and  the  Brother 
hood  of  Locomotive  Firemen.  Until  lately  a 
member  of  the  latter  organization  was  not  eligi 
ble  to  membership  in  the  former.  In  the  West, 
where  promotion  comes  quick  and  easy,  where 
the  fireman  of  to-day  is  the  engineer  of  to-mor 
row,  where  the  world  seems  wider  and  ideas 
broaden,  these  narrow  views  found  little  favor. 
Indeed,  it  was  the  Western  delegates  in  the 
convention  who  caused  these  restrictions  to 
be  removed. 

There  existed  for  years  the  bitterest  hatred 
between  the  members  of  the  Order  of  Railway 
Conductors  and  the  Engineers'  Brotherhood. 
So  cordially  did  they  hate  each  other  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  get  good  service. 


184  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Railway  managers  made  no  frantic  effort  to 
bring  about  a  reconciliation  between  these  im 
portant  branches  of  the  train  service.  On  the 
contrary,  I  am  afraid  some  of  them  rejoiced  in 
the  strife,  knowing  well  that  so  long  as  labor 
warred  with  labor,  capital  would  have  smooth 
sailing. 

When  the  Knights  of  Labor  were  in  their 
glory,  many  railroad  employees  turned  to  that 
organization  as  the  coming  Moses.  This  led 
up  to  a  struggle  between  the  Knights  and  the 
Brotherhoods. 

When  Debs  —  often  wrong,  but  always  honest 
an<f  earnest,  I  believe — -'conceived  the  idea  of 
bringmg"air  railroad  employees  together  in  one 
colossal  Brotherhood,  he  found  himself  opposed 
by  all  the  older  organizations,  including  the 
Brotherhood  of  Locomotive  Firemen,  for  whose 
advancement  he  had  spent  the  best  years  of  his 
life.  Just  as  the  different  nations  of  the  earth 
train  their  cannons  on  the  other  shore,  so  do 
the  various  labor  organizations  of  the  United 
States  "lay"  for  one  another. 

Happily,  thoughtful  men  are  beginning  to 
regard  all  this  as  quite  unnecessary,  as  a  great 


RELATIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE   TO  RAILROAD     185 

waste  of  energy;  and  a  change  is  coming. 
Lopking  back  over  the  fields  where  labor  and  j 
capital  have  fought,  we  see  only  waste,  want, 
desolation,  and  death.  In  struggles  of  this  kind 
capital  gains  nothing,  and  the_be_st  labor  can 
get  is  the  worst  of  it.  The  great  strikes  of  the 
past  twenty  years,  including  "the  last  bitter  strug 
gle  ..of  1894,  must  prove  plainly  to  the  thought 
ful,  working- man  that  he  must  rely  mainly  upon 
his  own  ability  to  make  a  place  for  himself  in 
the  world  and  to  hold  it. 

The  struggle  between  the  American  Railway 
Union  and  Mr.  Pullman  in  the  beginning,  the 
railway  companies  of  the  country  in  the  end, 
has  proven  two  facts  :   to  capital,  that  it  is  just 
as   well  to  treat  fairly  and  deal  honestly  with 
labor;   to   labor,  that  the  country  is  not  ready 
for  anarchy.     Few  people  believe  that  the  acts 
of  lawlessness   committed  at  Chicago  were  the 
doings  of  working-men.     These  outrages  were 
committed  mainly  by  idle  loafers  and  criminals     ,    f 
of  every  cast  and  irom  every  country,     g'oreigfa     hAj-^^ 
working-men,  at  best,  appear  to  bring  all  their          >  -    - 
grievances,  all    their    disrespect    for   law,  —  in  ^  Qk(         jj^ 
short,  all  they  possess   that   is  un-American,  — Jf)*^ 


1 86  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

tg^America.  In  nearly  all  the  labor  disturb 
ances  the  finger-marks  of  the  foreigner  are  V 
plainly  visible.  The  long  and  lawless  struggle 
at  Cripple  Creek  was  organized  and  officered 
wholly  by  foreigners,  and  their  energies  were 
directed  mainly  against  one  American,  —  self- 
made  as  far  as  his  fortune  is  concerned,  —  who, 
in  the  panicky  winter  of  1893-4,  advanced 
nearly  $100,000  to  build  a  railroad  to  the  great 
gold  camp,  thereby  providing  work  for  hundreds 
of  men  who  were  actually  hungry.  I  find  no 
fault  with  a  man  because  he  is  a  foreigner ;  only, 
if  he  cares  to  live  in  the  United  States,  he  ought 
to  respect  the  laws  of  the  country.  But  when 
an  American  journal,  or  news-gathering  associa 
tion,  will  interview  an  Anarchist  upon  the  mur 
der  of  the  president  of  a  republic,  allowing  him 
to  rejoice  in  cold  type  over  the  death  of  a  dis 
tinguished  citizen  of  another  country;  then, 
when  Americans  allow  such  a  man  (a  murderer 
at  heart)  to  live  in  the  land,  Uncle  Sam  becomes 
an  accessory,  and  by  his  tolerance  encourages 
Anarchy. 

I  have  seen  their  emblems.     Here,  in  Paris, 
not  more  than  a  mile  from  where  I  write,  there 


RELATIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE  TO  RAILROAD     187 

is  a  corner  in  the  graveyard  set  apart  for  these 
miserable  people.  The  walls  are  all  ablaze 
with  red  rings,  a  sort  of  bloody  funeral  harness, 
and  on  their  shields,  red  with  rust,  are  engraved 
the  knife,  the  pistol,  and  the  torch.  It  is  not 
good  for  the  young  republic  of  France,  with  a 
new-made  grave  of  a  murdered  president,  to 
allow  these  things  to  hang  here,  with  their 
breath  of  danger  and  hints  of  death. 

It  is  not  difficult  for  one,  even  slightly  ac 
quainted  with  the  history  of  the  railroads  of  the 
United  States,  to  pick  out  those  that  have  been 
most  prosperous ;  and  it  is  gratifying  to  note 
that  those  roads  enjoying  the  greatest  prosperity 
are  generally  at  peace  with  their  employees. 

We  "Have  seen  the  unpleasant  side  of  the 
employee,  — •  how,  in  the  past,  peace  seemed  to 
trouble  his  mind,  —  and  now  we  shall  see  the 
other  side. 

He  is  not  only  capable  of  appreciating  hu 
mane  treatment,  but  is  as  loyal  to  the  company 
employing  him,  when  properly  handled,  as  the 
highest  officer  can  possibly  be.  Cross  him, 
and  ~"h~eT'will  fight  for  his  manager.  Ask  his 
opinion,  and  he  will  show  you  how  far  the 


1 88  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

"Thunder-bird"  of  his  line  is  ahead  of  the 
wretched  and  rickety  old  "  Night-hawk  "  run  by 
the  opposition  road.  The  enthusiasm  of  the 
earnest  and  industrious  passenger-agent  and  his 
army  of  assistants  seems  to  find  its  way  down 
the  line  to  the  humblest  employee. 

I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  such  is  always  the 
case.  A  great  deal  —  nearly  everything,  in 
fact  —  depends  upon  the  character  of  the  higher 
officials.  A  railway  manager,  the  fingers  of 
whose  'phone  run  down  to  the  pool-rooms  and 
the  gilded  palaces  of  painted  women,  will  have 
a  demoralizing  influence  upon  the  employees  of 
the  road.  Turning  restlessly  in  his  office-chair, 
ever  gazing  out  at  the  window  to  fields  which 
he  fancies  elysium,  ever  impatient  and  anxious 
to  get  away  from  work,  to  return  to  play,  he 
cuts  everything  short,  and  you  will  find  his  sub 
ordinates  following  in  his  footsteps. 

Take  the  manager  who  is  thoroughly  in  ear 
nest,  honest  and  loyal  to  the  company,  and  his 
influence  will  be  felt.  It  is  not  difficult  for  a 
manager  to  win  and  hold  the  respect  of  the 
employees  of  a  railway.  If  he  but  takes  the 
trouble,  and  has  the  happy  faculty  of  imparting 


RELA  TIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE  TO  RAILROAD     189 

a  little  human  kindness  to  every  employee  with 
whom  he  comes  in  contact,  he  will  soon  win 
the  respect  of  all  his  subordinates.  In  doing 
this  he  makes  his  own  labors  lighter,  and  at  the 
same  time  adds  to  the  happiness  of  the  em 
ployees  and  the  revenue  of  the  road.  The 
best  service  can  be  had  only  when  all  work  har 
moniously  and  with  a  will.  Railway  employees 
know  when  they  are  treated  decently.  They 
know,  too,  that  an  impartial  judge,  commonly 
known  as  "  public  opinion,"  will  pass  upon 
their  cause,  and  they  are  learning  rapidly  that 
it  is  not  good  to  kick  unless  they  have  a  "  kick 
comin',''  as  they  express  it.  The  best  of  them 
are  not  great  readers,  but  they  manage  to 
acquire  more  knowledge  of  things  in  general, 
and  railroads  in  particular,  than  the  average  cit 
izen  does.  Go  and  mingle  with  a  band  of  yard 
men  who  are  loafing  round  a  switch-engine,  and 
in  a  half  hour  you  will  get  a  good  bit  of  the  his 
tory  of  American  railroads,  and  much  of  the 
personal  history  of  the  leading  railway  officials 
of  the  country.  You  will  find,  too,  that,  if  they 
"  roast  "  some  of  them  vigorously,  they  praise 
others  enthusiastically.  It  is  always  pleasant  to 


190  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

say  nice  things  of  other  people.  It  is  pleasant 
to  try  to  pick  out  the  good  things  in  the  life  of 
a  man  whom  the  public  has  regarded  as  bad. 
Jay  Gould,  for  example.  The  employees  of 
railroads  commonly  known  as  the  "  Gould 
Systems "  were  always  sure  of  three  things, 
—  good  wages,  decent  treatment,  and  a  good 
check  for  their  money  the  moment  they  earned 
it.  This  respectful  consideration  for  his  em 
ployees,  which  was  one  of  the  noble  traits  in 
Mt.  Gould's  character,  has  been  imparted  to 
his  assistants,  and  is  distinguishable  to  this  day. 
Not  long  ago,  during  an  inquiry  by  the  Govern 
ment  into  the  matter  of  wages  of  employees, 
the  president  of  one  of  these  roads  was  called 
to  the  stand  to  testify.  Wheri  the  venerable 
railroader  took  his  place  and  raised  his  hand  to 
be^sworn,  his  white  hair  falling  like  a  halo  about 
his  head,  the  United  States  judge  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment,  and  said  :  "  You  need  n't 
swear."  Perhaps  the  judge  remembered  that 
in  that  same  city  —  then  a  wild  outpost  of  civ 
ilization  on  the  Western  plains  —  this  man 
had  begun  his  railroad  career  as  a  Eurrible 
empIoyee7~aTid  that  in  all  these  years  his 


RELATIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE   TO  RAILROAD     191 

honesty  had  never  been  questioned,  and  that 
was  sufficient. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  much  to  take  his  testi 
mony  without  swearing  him,  but  to  me  it  seems 
a  delicate  and  touching  compliment  to  this 
great  good  man.  I  know  it  is  customary  to 
preserve  these  little  flowers  for  the  grave,  but  I 
prefer  to  put  this  one  here.  It  may  serve  as  a 
"marker"  to  those  who  follow  in  his  footsteps, 
—  a  something  to  strive  for,  "  a  consummation 
devoutly  to  be  wished." 

I  never  knew  Tom  Potter,  never  saw  him, 
but  I  know  he  lived  and  died.  I  remember 
that  for  a  year  after  his  death  it  was  impossible 
to  open  one  of  the  many  trade  magazines, 
printed  and  supported  by  railway  employees, 
without  reading  a  line  like  this :  "  Send  some 
thing  to  the  Potter  Monument  Fund."  I  do 
not  know  that  he  ever  got  the  monument,  but 
I  know  he  got  its  equivalent,  —  a  monument  of 
devotion  which  can  only  be  built  on  the  foun 
dation  prepared  for  it  in  life.  It  proves  that 
in  the  average  railroad  employee  there  is  a  pay- 
streak  of  gratitude  ;  and  that  ought  to  make  up 
for  a  multitude  of  short-comings.  But  it  is  not 


192  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

necessary  to  die  in  order  to  receive  his  respect. 
During  the    hard    times   in    the   West,    caused 
mainly  by  the   closing  of  the   silver  mines,   a 
very   conscientious    general   manager   called    a 
number  of  employees  together  to  discuss  the 
matter  of  a  reduction   of  wages.     There   were 
present  representatives  from  the  various  brother 
hoods  and  labor  organizations  who   had   been 
sent  to  head-quarters   instructed  to   submit    to 
no  reduction  of  wages.     The  manager  made  his 
case  so  clear  —  showing  the  delegates  the  utter 
impossibility  of  keeping  all  the  trains  then  on 
the  time-card  running,    and   the  folly    of  sup 
posing  that  the  owners  of  the  road  would  retain 
him  as  manager  unless  he  made  some  effort  to 
reduce  operating  expenses  to  fit  in  a   measure 
the   decrease    and  still    decreasing  earnings  — 
that  he  at  once   won  the  respect  of  the   dele 
gation.     When  these  poor  fellows  returned  to 
their  several    homes    and   made    the  result    of 
their  deliberations  known,    there    was   a   great 
row.     Some  of  the  more  ignorant  and  unscru 
pulous  employees  openly  accused  the  delegates 
of  selling   their   constituency   to    the    railroad. 
The  manager  heard  all  this  in  due  time,  and, 


RE  LA  TIONS  OF  EMPL  O  YEE   TO  RAILROAD     193 

having  faith  in  the  justice  of  his  cause  and 
the  humanity  of  man,  he  submitted  the  ques 
tion  to  a  vote  of  all  employees,  with  the 
promise  that  wages  should  be  restored  at  the 
beginning  of  the  following  year.  The  men 
voted  to  submit  to  the  proposed  reduction  ;  but 
few  of  them  ever  knew  what  want  and  misery 
they  saved  by  so  doing,  for,  if  the  manager 
had  been  beaten,  the  force  was  to  have  been 
reduced,  and  thus  many  of  them  would  have 
been  thrown  out  of  work  entirely  at  the  begin 
ning  of  a  hard  winter,  when  all  the  railroads  in 
the  country  were  discharging  men. 

A  less  thoughtful,  a  less  humane  manager, 
would  have  ordered  the  reduction  in  wages 
which  circumstances  certainly  made  necessary, 
and  created  a  strike,  — won  in  the  end,  at  the 
expense  both  of  the  employees  and  of  the  stock 
holders.  It  is  well  to  observe  these  things  and 
the  way  they  work.  They  all  show  that  a 
straightforward,  open,  and  honest  policy  will 
often  save  money  for  the  people  who  have  been 
enterprising  enough  to  build  railroads,  and  pre 
vent  the  less-learned  employees  —  the  fretful 
children  of  the  rail  —  from  running  blindly  into 
danger. 
I  — —  _*-  '3 

fJ^/VLP-v 


194  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

I  happened  to  be  in  San  Francisco  when  Mr. 
Stanford  died,  and  I  want  to  say  a  word  for 
him.  If  you  ask  me  how  he  managed  to  save 
twenty  millions  in  twenty  years,  I  cannot  an 
swer  ;  but  there  was  something  good  and  gentle 
in  his  nature.  Poor  Mr.  Stanford  !  Surrounded 
as  he  was  with  his  miserable  millions,  with  all  his 
wretched  riches,  his  going  away  was  as  peaceful 
and  pathetic  as  the  death  of  a  nun.  He  knew, 
it  seems,  that  he  was  going,  and  had  selected 
his  pall-bearers.  They  were  the  six  oldest  loco 
motive-engineers  in  the  employ  of  the  company. 
Many  times  he  had  placed  his  life  in  their 
hands,  and  now  at  the  end  he  wanted  these 
strong,  brave  fellows  to  "  handle  his  train  "  on 
the  last  sad  run.  As  usual,  they  did  their  work 
well,  walking  upright  with  a  firm  step.  Their 
eyes  were  tearless,  their  faces  calm ;  but  if  you 
looked  closely,  you  would  see  them  trying  to 
swallow  something.  It  was  that  hurt  in  the 
throat  that  comes  to  men  —  unfortunate  men 
—  who  are  not  weak  enough  to  weep. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  procession  another 
band  of  employees  walked,  with  bowed  heads 
and  tear-wet  eyes, — yellow  men,  whose  homes 


RELATIONS  OF  EMPLOYEE  TO  RAILROAD     195 

and  gods  were  at  the  other  end  of  the  earth, 
who  found  the  paths  at  the  Occident  slippery 
ways;  but  they  had  taken  something  of  the 
tenderness  of  their  gentle  master,  and  so  walked 
in  his  wake  and  wept. 


jfrom  tty  Comffela  to  tty  Cab 


FROM  THE  CORNFIELD   TO  THE   CAB 


T^VERY  boy,  arrived  at  a  certain  age,  wishes 
to  take  part  in  the  work  of  the  world 
which  he  sees  going  on  about  him.  Many 
desire  to  become  locomotive-engineers,  but  few 
of  these  understand  how  hard  and  long  is  the 
way  to  gratification  of  that  ambition.  My  ex 
perience  is  like  the  experience  of  many  a  man 
who  has  worked  his  way  from  the  corn-field  to 
the  cab  of  a  locomotive. 

My  first  railroading  was  in  the  humble  capa 
city  of  a  water-carrier  for  the  graders  on  the 
Vandalia  road,  in  Illinois,  where  my  father  had 
a  small  contract.  Finally,  the  grade  was  com 
pleted,  and  the  construction  train  came  along 
behind  the  first  locomotive  I  had  ever  seen. 

Of  course  I  was  deeply  impressed  with  its 
grandeur.  Every  boy  gazes  at  a  locomotive 
with  rapture,  partly  compounded  of  fear.  If 


20O  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

boys  playing  football  hear  the  whistle  of  an 
engine,  they  will  stop  and  look.  A  boy  swim 
ming,  who  is  supposed  to  forget  everything, 
will  turn  and  swim  on  his  back  and  watch  the 
train  go  by. 

Our  farm  lay  near  the  railroad,  just  at  the 
end  of  a  hard  pull.  From  the  field  where  I 
worked  during  my  youthful  years  I  could  see 
the  fireman  at  his  furnace,  while  the  great  black 
steed  toiled  slowly  up  the  hill  with  a  half  a  mile 
of  cars  behind  her.  I  never  looked  with  envy 
at  the  engineer.  If  I  could  be  a  fireman, 
I  thought,  my  cup  of  happiness  would  be 
full. 

It  is  not  an  easy  matter,  without  influential 
friends,  to  get  employment  on  a  railroad,  espe 
cially  if  the  applicant  happens  to  have  hayseed 
in  his  hair,  or  milk  on  his  shoes.  When  the 
brakeman,  who  is  the  paid  elocutionist  of  the 
train  crew,  wishes  to  humiliate  a  feiiow-work- 
man,  he  invariably  calls  him  a  farmer.  No 
greater  insult  can  be  offered  to  a  brakeman. 

I  had  lived  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  failed 
in  half  a  dozen  business  ventures,  when  I  de 
cided  to  go  railroading,  being  prepared  to 


FROM  THE   CORNFIELD   TO    THE   CAB      2OI 

accept  the  humblest  position,  so  long  as  it  was 
in  the  path  that  led  to  the  throttle. 

I  presented  some  strong  letters  to  the  Master 
Mechanic  of  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande  at 
Salida,  Colorado ;  a  clerk  wrote  my  name  and 
address  in  a  large  book,  saying  that  he  would 
call  me  when  I  was  wanted.  I  began  to  think 
I  should  not  be  wanted ;  for  I  had  waited  a 
month  or  more  when  the  caller  came  one 
evening  and  told  me  to  report  to  the  night 
foreman. 

First  I  joined  the  wipers,  —  a  gang  of  half  a 
dozen  men,  whose  business  it  is  to  clean  the 
engines  up  when  they  come  in  from  the  road. 
This  gang  is  made  up  of  three  classes,  —  old  men 
who  are  not  strong  enough  to  perform  heavier 
work ;  young  and  delicate  youths ;  strong  young 
men  who  expect  to  become  firemen  when  their 
names  are  reached. 

The  wiper's  work  is  not  arduous,  except  for  the 
long  and  dreary  hours,  —  from  six  in  the  even 
ing  to  six  in  the  morning.  But  it  is  disagree 
able  work.  You  have  to  get  down  in  the  pit 
under  the  locomotive  reeking  with  oil,  and  wipe 
the  machinery  clean  and  dry  with  bunches  of 


2O2  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

waste.  'All  this  time  you  are  obliged  to  inhale 
the  awful  fumes  of  the  torch  you  carry. 

If  you  are  faithful  and  patient,  you  may  be 
promoted  to  the  day  shift  in  six  months.  Here 
you  perform  the  same  work,  but  without  the 
torch,  and  you  sleep  of  nights.  By  and  by  you 
are  promoted  again  to  the  position  of  engine 
watchman. 

There  are  from  twenty  to  fifty  locomotives  in 
the  round-house,  and  it  is  the  watchman's  duty 
to  keep  water  in  the  boilers,  and  enough  steam 
up  to  move  the  engines  in  case  one  is  wanted 
in  a  hurry.  Before  long  the  foreman,  if  he 
thinks  you  deserve  to  be  encouraged,  will  put 
you  on  a  yard- engine  as  fireman.  This  will 
take  you  back  to  night-work,  but  it  is  one  step 
forward,  and  the  work  is  light. 

When  there  is  a  vacancy  you  will  be  given  a 
day  engine,  and  again  you  feel  thankful :  you 
see  the  sunlight ;  it  gives  you  courage ;  you  are 
glad  to  be  free  of  night-work.  I  do  not  know 
of  anything  that  will  embitter  a  man's  life  and 
sour  his  disposition  so  swiftly  and  surely  as 
working  week  after  week  through  the  hours  of 
darkness. 


FROM  THE   CORNFIELD    TO   THE   CAB      203 

From  the  day  yard- engine  you  go  out  on  the 
road,  and  now  you  are  a  real  fireman.  You 
•  are  assigned  a  regular  locomotive,  and  you  are 
expected  to  keep  everything  clean  and  in  order ; 
that  is,  everything  above  the  running-board,  — 
that  board  which  you  will  see  on  all  locomotives, 
extending  from  the  cab  along  the  side  of  the 
boiler  to  the  front  end. 

On  mountain  roads,  ten  years  ago,  wipers, 
watchmen,  and  all  round-house  helpers  were 
paid  one  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents  a  day, 
firemen  on  yard- engines  two  dollars,  and  engi 
neers  three.  Firemen  on  road  engines  received 
two  dollars  and  forty  cents  a  day,  and  engineers 
four  dollars;  but  Eastern  roads  do  not  pay 
nearly  so  well.  I  know  of  a  half-dozen  railroad 
presidents  who  began  at  less  than  fifty  cents  a 
day. 

Another  great  advantage  the  men  of  the  West 
had  at  that  time  was  that  they  served,  as  a  rule, 
less  than  three  years  as  firemen,  though  now  on 
Eastern  roads  men  commonly  fire  from  five  to 
ten  years.  But  the  West  was-  then  developing 
rapidly,  and  new  roads  were  being  built  every 
year. 


204  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

At  the  end,  say,  of  three  years,  the  fireman 
may  be  promoted  to  be  hostler.  The  hostler 
takes  the  engines  from  the  coal-track,  side 
track,  or  wherever  the  engineers  leave  them. 
He  has  them  coaled  up,  the  fire  cleaned,  and 
then  runs  them  into  the  stalls  in  the  round 
house.  In  this  work  he  becomes  familiar  with 
each  and  every  engine  on  the  division,  and  if 
he  be  observing,  he  will  retain  this  knowledge 
and  use  it  when  he  becomes  an  engineer. 

The  next  promotion  takes  the  hostler  back 
to  the  night  yard-engine  :  this  time  as  engineer. 
His  pay  is  now  three  dollars  a  day,  or  ninety 
dollars  a  month;  but  he  was  making  over  a 
hundred  dollars  a  month  at  two  dollars  and 
forty  cents  a  day  as  fireman. 

Road  engine-men  are  paid  by  the  mile, — 
forty-four  mountain  miles  or  eighty-five  valley 
miles  being  a  day's  work.  Thus,  when  busi 
ness  is  good,  the  engine  crew  make  forty  and 
fifty,  and  once  in  a  while  sixty,  days  in  a  month, 

The  man  on  the  night  yard-engine  goes 
through  the  same  stages  of  promotion  that  the 
fireman  went  through,  until  at  last  he  finds  him 
self  at  the  throttle  of  a  road  engine,  with  another 


FROM  THE    CORNFIELD    TO    THE   CAB       205 

increase  in  pay  and  a  corresponding  increase  in 
responsibility,  but  with  less  real  hard  work  to 
perform. 

On  some  roads  a  man  must,  I  believe,  serve 
a  time  in  the  shops  as  helper  and  machinist 
before  he  can  hope  to  be  promoted  to  the  posi 
tion  of  engineer.  This  is  not  absolutely  neces 
sary,  for  the  reason  that  the  engineer  is  not 
required  to  keep  the  engine  in  repair.  Most 
master  mechanics  will  tell  you  that  the  machin 
ist  is  not  always  the  best  "  runner." 

There  is  a  book  called  the  work-book,  where 
the  engineer  whose  engine  needs  repair  writes 
its  number,  what  he  wants  done,  and  his  name. 
If  he  is  not  quite  sure  about  the  disease,  he 
may  make  a  report  like  this :  "  Examine  right 
steam-chest."  The  foreman  will  set  a  machinist 
to  work,  who,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  will  locate 
the  trouble  in  a  very  short  time. 

Even  where  promotion  comes  rapidly,  it  takes 
from  four  to  six  years  to  work  from  the  wiping 
tHesTyears, are  jiot  wasted . 
and  every  hour  you  become  more 
and  more  acquainted  with  the  various  parts  of 
the  great  iron  horse,  till  at  last  the  knowledge 


206  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

picked  up  in  these  years  of  toil  serves  to  make 
up  the  sum  of  your  education  as  a  locomotive 
engineer.  The  years  seem  surprisingly  short, 
for  there  is  always  the  hope  that  springs  eternal 
to  lure  you  on. 

The  life  of  an  engineer  is  fascinating,  espe 
cially  where  the  road  lies  along  the  banks  of  a 
beautiful  stream,  or  over  grand  mountains. 
Here  at  every  curve  a  new  picture  is  spread 
before  him. 

To  reach  the  summit  of  some  high  mountain 
at  sunrise ;  to  look  down  the  winding  trail 
which  he  must  travel,  and  see  the  blue-jay 
cloud  lying  across  the  track ;  to  dash  through 
the  cloud  and  out  into  the  glad  sunlight  again, 
the  verdant  valley  stretching  away  below,  —  the 
high  hills  lifting  their  hoary  crests  above,  —  is 
apt  to  impress  one  with  the  awful  grandeur  of 
God's  world,  so  that  he  will  carry  that  impres 
sion  through  life. 

A  very  small  percentage  of  locomotive-en 
gineers  become  railway  officials.  If  promotion 
comes  to  the  engineer,  he  is  usually  promoted 
to  the  office  of  travelling  engineer^  The  duty 
of  this  officer  is  to  go  about  over  the  road  to 


FROM  THE   CORNFIELD    TO    THE   CAB      207 

see  that  the  engines  are  made  to  work  to  their 
full  capacity,  and  to  see  that  the  engine-men  do 
not  abuse  the  engines  or  waste  the  supplies. 

The  travelling  engineer  usually  recommends 
firemen  for  promotion.  While  railway  rules 
permit  the  promotion  of  firemen  in  accordance 
with  the  length  of  time  they  have  served  in  that 
capacity,  the  rule  is  not  always  applied ;  and  it 
should  not  be.  One  man  will  learn  as  much  in 
a  year  as  another  will  in  ten,  and  all  men  do 
not  make  good  engineers.  Then,  again,  if  a 
man  is  given  to  dissipation,  he  is  not,  and 
should  not,  be  promoted  in  his  turn. 

There  is  a  vast  improvement  from  year  to 
year  in  railway  employees  as  a  class,  morally 
and  intellectually.  It  is  no  longer  considered 
necessary  for  a  man  to  be  "  real  tough  "to  be 
a  good  train  or  engine  man.  As  a  class,  the 
men  who  now  enter  the  railway  service  are 
more  intelligent  than  those  who  sought  such 
employment  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago. 

The  travelling  engineer  is  often  promoted  to 
the  position  of  master  mechanic ;  from  that 
place  to  superintendent  of  motive  power ;  and 
sometimes  he  becomes  superintendent  of  the 
road,  or  general  manager. 


208  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Among  the  boys  who  read  this,  there  may  be 
some  who  desire  to  become  locomotive-engi 
neers.  To  such  I  would  offer  one  bit  of  advice, 
—  do  whatever  you  are  assigned  to  do  cheer 
fully  ;  and  do  it  well. 

Never  leave  a  piece  of  work  half  done.  Try 
to  be  the  best  wiper  in  the  gang ;  the  best  fire 
man  on  the  road ;  but  do  not  say  you  are  so. 
The  officials  will  find  it  out,  if  you  are  really 
deserving  of  recognition. 

Do  not  rely  upon  a  grievance  committee  to 
hold  your  job ;  take  care  of  that  yourself. 
Remember  that  it  is  easy  to  "kick"  yourself 
out  of  a  good  place,  but  never  into  a  better 
one.  The  official  who  promotes  you  is  in  a 
measure  responsible  for  you ;  see  that  he  does 
not  have  to  apologize  to  his  superior  for  your 
failure. 

The  moment  you  become  dissatisfied  with 
your  position,  quit.  Think  it  over  first,  and  see 
whether  you  can  better  your  condition ;  but  do 
not  drag  others  into  your  troubles ;  learn  to  rely 
upon  yourself. 

If  you  succeed  in  reaching  the  right-hand 
side  of  a  locomotive,  you  will  then  be  in  a  posi- 


FROM  THE   CORNFIELD    TO    THE   CAB      2 09 

tion  to  show  your  fellow-workmen  that  a  man 
may  be  a  smooth  runner  without  the  excessive 
use  of  tobacco,  liquor,  or  profanity. 

By  pursuing  this  course,  you  may  be  regarded 
as  a  curiosity  by  some  of  the  fraternity,  but  you 
will  be  respected  by  the  men  and  the  manage 
ment,  you  will  live  longer,  and  you  will  be  hap 
pier  while  you  live. 


of  rtje  Hail 


a  tjje  General  passenger  Igente 

/  dedicate  these  simple  lays 
To  the  jolly,  joyous  G.  P.  A?s 
Of  America,  whose  "paper-talk" 
Has  saved  me  many  a  weary  walk. 

CY  WARMAN. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE   FLYER 

TVT  EAR  where  the  hill-girt  Hudson  lay, 

Up  the  steel  track  the  engineer 
Reined  his  swift  steed  at  close  of  day, 

As,  leaping  like  a  frightened  deer, 
At  each  wild  surge  she  seemed  to  say : 
Away  !  Away  !  Away  !  Away  ! 

The  slow  team  toiling  up  the  hill, 

The  light  boat  drifting  with  the  breeze, 

The  swiftest  trains  seemed  standing  still ; 
Red  vines  were  twining  round  the  trees, 

Whose  leaves,  made  golden  by  the  frost, 

Gained  more  of  lustre  than  they  lost. 

The  trackman,  tamping  up  the  rail, 
Felt  the  perfume  of  dying  flowers  ; 

The  shadows  lengthened  in  the  vale, 

And  watchmen  watched  from  out  the  towers 

The  little  cloud  of  dust  behind, 

As  we  went  whistling  down  the  wind. 


214  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Night's  curtain  falls ;  and  here  and  there 
The  housewife  lights  the  evening  lamp ; 

And  where  the  fields  are  cold  and  bare, 
His  fire  is  kindled  by  the  tramp. 

Down  throught  the  midnight,  dark  and  deep, 

The  world  goes  by  us,  fast  asleep. 

Up  through  the  morning,  on  and  on  ! 

The  red  sun,  rising  from  the  sea, 
As  we  go  quivering  through  the  dawn, 

Lights  up  the  earth,  reveals  to  me 
In  the  first  ruddy  flush  of  morn, 
The  golden  pumpkins  in  the  corn. 

From  east  to  west,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  black  steed  trembles  through  the  night, 

And  with  a  mighty  rush  and  roar 

Breaks  through  the  dawn ;  and  in  their  flight, 

Wild  birds,  bewildered  by  the  train, 

Dash  dead  against  the  window  pane. 

"Be  swift,"  I  cried,  "oh,  matchless  steed; 

The  world  is  watching,  do  your  best !  " 
With  quick  and  ever-quickening  speed, 

The  hot  fire  burning  in  her  breast, 
With  flowing  mane  and  proud  neck  bent, 
She  laughed  across  the  continent. 


FROM    BUDAPEST    TO    BELGRADE 

"DOUND  for  the  Orient,  I  strayed 

Down  by  the  Danube  near  Belgrade, 
The  Servian  capital. 

I  had, 

For  guide  that  day,  a  Servian  lad, 
A  rider  ;   but  you  'd  never  guess 
He  rode  the  Orient  Express 

From  Budapest  to  Belgrade,  then, 
From  Belgrade  back  to  Buda  'gain. 

He  had  the  softest,  sunny  hair  ! 

His  eyes  were  like  the  Danube,  blue ; 
And,  looking  on  him,  one  would  swear 

Whatever  tale  he  told  was  true. 
So  young  and  fair,  you  'd  never  guess 
He  rode  the  Orient  Express 

From  Budapest  to  Belgrade,  then, 

From  Belgrade  back  to  Buda  'gain. 


2l6  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

His  story  was  not  new  to  me, 

For  strange  things  happen  on  the  rail, 

And  we  have  heard  a  wilder  tale, 
Of  sea-men  rising  from  the  sea 

Who  had  been  dead  a  week,  whom  men 

Had  not  a  hope  to  see  again. 

"  See  there,  where  treads  the  watchman's  trail," 
Said  he.     "  One  night,  as  I  came  down, 
Just  while  I  whistled  for  the  town, 

The  head-light  shimmered  o'er  the  rail 
And  showed  a  woman  running  there 

Like  some  wild  wingless  bird  of  night, 

And,  rippling  o'er  her  robe  of  white, 
A  sable  cataract  of  hair : 
I  thought  a  ghost  was  running  there. 

"  She  turned  —  I  saw  her  —  <  God,  Clairette  ! ' 
I  gasped,  reversed  and  set  the  air, 
With  naught  of  time  nor  space  to  spare. 

I  saw  her  death-white  face,  and  let 
The  sand  fall,  threw  the  throttle  wide, 
And  cried,  O  Heaven  !  how  I  cried 

To  her. 

"  We  stopped ;  I  saw  her  fall 

Beneath  the  wheels.     And  when  she  fell 


RHYMES  OF  THE   RAIL  2l*J 

I  sprang  to  rescue  her,  and  —  well  — 
She  disappeared ;  I  tried  to  call 

To  her. 

"  Three  times  I  called  her  name 
And  listened ;  but  no  answer  came, 

Although  I  stood  just  where  she  fell. 

"  Remembering  that  her  father's  cot, 
Beyond  the  bridge,  was  near  the  track, 

I  turned,  and  hurried  toward  the  spot, 
And  saw  the  river  running  black 

Just  where  I  stopped  and  trembled  on 

The  brink,  for  lo,  the  bridge  was  gone  ! 

"  The  Angel  slept ;  but  love  had  found 

A  way  to  warn  me  in  her  sleep, 

God  bless  her. 

At  another  bound 

I  must  have  gone  down  in  the  deep 
Dark  Danube  ;  in  that  awful  flood 
Whose  mere  remembrance  chills  my  blood." 

The  same  man  rides  the  night  express ; 
The  self  same  man  who  rode  it  then, 

Rides  twice  a  week  to  Budapest, 
From  Budapest  to  Belgrade,  then, 
From  Belgrade  back  to  Buda  'gain. 


AT  THE  ENGINEER'S  GRAVE 

T  T  OW  often,  at  night,  when  I  'm  rocked  o'er 
^      the  rail, 

When  the  little  stars  shine  overhead, 
My  mind  wanders  back  over  memory's  trail, 

And  I  think  of  the  days  that  are  dead. 
The  red  locomotives  we  had  for  our  toys, 

The  coaches  so  gaudy  and  gay, 
How  we  played  together,  Bill,  when  we  were 

boys, 

And  again  I  can  hear  you  say : 
"  Chu-chu,  chu-chu,  here  comes  the  railroad, 

"  You  '11  be  the  brakeman  and  open  the  bars." 
Big  bell  a-ringing,  somebody  singing, 

"  Chu-chu,  chu-chu,  here  come  the  cars." 

And  now,  where  your  sleep  is  so  dreamless  and 
still, 

In  this  silent  city  I  stroll ; 
Oh,  send  me  some  signal,  or  speak  to  me,  Bill ; 

How  is  it,  old  friend,  with  the  soul  ? 


RHYMES   OF   THE   RAIL  219 

How  is  it  up  there  on  your  heavenly  railroad? 
The  moon  for  a  headlight,  for  white  lights 

the  stars ; 

Glad  bells  a-ringing,  angels  a-singing, 
"  Chu-chu,  chu-chu,  here  come  the  cars." 


THE   FREIGHT  TRAIN 

T  T  OW  I  love  to  watch  the  local  winding  up 

around  the  hill, 
In  the  sunrise  of  the  morning,  when  the  autumn 

air  is  still, 
And  the  smoke,  like  loosened  tresses,  floats  away 

above  her  back, 
And  to  listen  to  the  measured  Choo-ka,  Choo-ka, 

of  the  stack. 

The  man  who  rides  these  mountains,  whose 
fiery  steed  of  steel 

Drinks  of  Nature's  flowing  fountains,  must  inev 
itably  feel 

A  divine  and  peerless  painter  spread  the  scenes 
along  the  track 

As  he  listens  to  the  Choo-ka,  Choo-ka,  Choo-ka, 
of  the  stack. 


RHYMES    OF   THE   RAIL  221 

111    the    peaceful  hush   of  midnight,   when    his 

pilot  ploughs  the  gloom, 
From  a  hundred  hills  wild- roses  send  their  subtle 

sweet  perfume 
To  the  wary,  weary  watcher,  whose  lamps  light 

up  the  track, 
And   a   hundred    hills   give  back  the   Choo-ka, 

Choo-ka,  of  the  stack. 

Ah,  how   I  miss  the  music   of  the  whistle  and 

the  bell, 
And  the  breathing  of  the  air-pump,  more  than 

any  tongue  can  tell ; 
And  the  mighty,  massive  Mogul  seems  to  try  to 

call  me  back, 
With  her  Choo-ka,  Choo-ka,  Choo-ka,  Choo-ka, 

Choo-ka  of  the  stack. 


CHIPETA 


"\7t  7 HEN  Uncompahgre1  s  vale  I  view, 

From  mountains  high  and  hoary, 
I  seem  to  dream  love's  dream  anew, 

And  hear  the  old,  old  story. 
Chipeta,  blest  queen  of  my  breast, 

When  here  mine  eyes  first  saw  you, 
The  Poncho  perfumed  wind  caressed 
Your  sun-kissed  Wahatoya. 

O'er  Alamos  a  hills  we  strolled, 

Whose  shadows  seemed  to  beg  us 
Pause  where  gentle  Lomas  rolled, 

Above  the  Verdi  Vegas. 
The  soft  wind  shook  the  Arboles, 

And  song-birds  in  La  Jara 
Make  music  dulce  on  the  breeze 

From  Elko  to  Cuchara. 

1  Italics  are  names  of  stations  on  the  Denver  and 
Rio  Grande  Railway. 


RHYMES   OF   THE   RAIL  22 3 

Oft  in  these  Cimarron  ranges  grand, 

The  walks  of  Escalante, 
Have  I  caressed  your  sun-browned  hand 

With  kisses  Caliente. 
Dear,  good  Alcalde,  bring  her  back ; 

No  monte  is  Bonifa, 
O'er  whose  rough  Piedras  there  's  no  track 

Made  by  my  lost  Chip  eta. 

Or  take  me  to  Thee,  Manitou, 

My  Santa  Fe  will  guide  me, 
And  some  day  I  shall  be  with  you, 

And  walk  with  her  beside  me 
Upon  that  blest  Hermosa  shore, 

So  sunny  zn&florida, 
Mine  anima  shall  mourn  no  more,  — 

I  see  the  soul's  Salida. 


OUR   HEROES 

\7(  7  HEN  we  have  scattered  the  flowers  of  May 
Over  the  graves  of  the  Blue  and  Gray,  — 
Over  the  graves  where  the  women  weep, 
Over  the  mounds  where  the  heroes  sleep, — 
Then  let  us  turn  to  the  graves  of  those 
Who  have  lived  and  died  in  their  over-clothes. 

Are  they  not  heroes?  have  they  not  died 
Under  their  engines,  side  by  side? 
Have  they  not  stood  at  the  throttle  and  brake, 
And  gone  down  to  death  for  their  passengers' 

sake? 

Calm,  undisturbed,  be  the  peaceful  repose 
Of  the  men  who  have  died  in  their  over-clothes. 

I  would  not  take  from  the  soldier's  grave 
Not  even  the  blades  of  grass  that  wave  ; 
Nor  do  I  ask  you  to  hand  me  down 
A  single  star  from  the  soldier's  crown ; 


RHYMES   OF    THE   RAIL  22$ 

All  honor  to  him  :  but  forget  not  those 

Who  have  lived  and  died  in  their  over-clothes. 

T  would  be  sweet  to   know,  when  they  're  laid 

to  rest, 

With  hands  folded  silently  over  their  breast, 
That  a  woman  would  come  to  their  graves  once 

a  year, 

Bringing  wreaths  of  flowers  ;  that  a  woman's  tear 
Would  dampen  the  dust  on  the  graves  of  those 
Who  have  lived  and  died  in  their  over-clothes. 


THE  TRAMP'S   LAST  RIDE 

E   brakeman  pulled  his  double-breasted 
vest,  and  threw  himself  astride 
The  brake-wheel;  then  he  said  he  guessed  as 
how  the  road  warn't  justified 

In  totin'  people  on  their  gall 
Who  had  no  travellin'  card  at  all. 

Then  to  the  sunset,  far  away,  the  poor  tramp 

looked  with  tearful  eyes  ; 

He  viewed  the  distant  dying  day,  turned  to  the 
shack  with  some  surprise  : 

"Then  you  won't  tote  me?"  "No,"  he 

said; 
"  I  '11  never  tote  you,  'less  you  're  dead." 

The  tramp  was  bound  to  have  a  ride ;  and  from 

his  torn  and  tattered  coat 
A  flask  of  Leadville-suicide  he  pulled,  and  tipped 
it  down  his  throat ; 

Then,  to  the  brakeman  turned,  and  said  : 
"  Git  ready,  pard,  I  '11  soon  be  dead." 


THE   NELLIE   BLY 

A     MAIDEN  to  Chicago  bound, 
*^     Cried,  "  Bissell,  do  not  tarry, 
And  I  '11  give  thee  a  golden  crown 

To  fly  me  o'er  the  prairie  !  " 
"And  who  be  ye  this  trip  would  try, 

And  who  's  his  jags,  the  flunkey?  " 
"  Oh,  I  'm  the  girdler,  Nellie  Ely, 

And  this,  my  Indian  monkey." 

"  Then  look  well  to  thy  wardrobe,  lass, 

There  '11  be  some  lightning  changes 
From  California's  field  of  grass 

To  Raton's  rocky  ranges  ; 
From  Glorietta's  polished  peaks 

To  th'  warm  Arkansas  valley, 
We  '11  do  in  days  what  once  took  weeks." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Nellie. 

Then  o'er  the  track  the  special  sped, 
And  o'er  the  wire  the  warning ; 

The  mile-posts  from  her  pathway  fled, 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  morning ; 


228  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Across  the  hill  and  down  the  dell, 

Past  station  after  station, 
The  muffled  music  of  the  bell 

Gave  voice  to  each  vibration. 

Swift  speeds  the  steed  of  steel  and  steam ; 

And  where  the  road  lies  level, 
The  train  sweeps  like  a  running  stream, 

Past  palace  and  past  hovel. 
And  o'er  the  prairie,  cold  and  gray, 

There  falls  a  flood  of  fire, 
While  orders  flash  for  miles  away : 

"Take  siding  for  the  Flyer." 

The  engine  seems  to  fairly  float, 

Her  iron  sinews  quiver, 
While  swift,  beneath  her  throbbing  throat, 

The  rails  rush  like  a  river. 
Upon  the  seat  the  engineer, 

Who  knows  her  speed  and  power, 
Sits  silently  without  a  fear, 

At  sixty  miles  an  hour. 


NOBODY   KNOWS 


XT  OBODY  knows  when  the  song-birds  sing, 

In  the  first  glad  flush  of  the  summer  sun, 
The  want  and  the  woe  that  time  will  bring, 
When    the    season    has    changed,   when    the 

summer  is  done ; 
When    the    flowers    and    ferns  sleep  under  the 

snows, 
What  will  the  winter  bring,  nobody  knows. 

Nobody  knows,  when  we  say  "good-by" 

To  our  wives  and  our  babies,  and  hurry  away 

O'er  the  glistening  rail,  'neath  a  sunny  sky, 
How  we  '11  return  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

Hearty  and  hale,  or  shall  we  repose 
Cold  in  a  casket :  nobody  knows. 


THE   OPEN   SWITCH 

A  LL  the  summer,  early  and  late, 

And  in  the  autumn  drear, 
A  maiden  stood  at  the  orchard  gate 

And  waved  at  the  engineer. 
He  liked  to  look  at  her  face  so  fair, 

And  her  homely  country  dress  j 

She  liked  to  look  at  the  man  up  there 

At  the  front  of  the  fast  express. 

There  's  only  a  flash  of  the  maiden's  eye, 

As  the  engine  rocks  and  reels  ; 
And  then  she  hears  in  the  distance  die 

The  clinkety-clink  of  wheels. 
Clinkety-clink,  so  far  apart 

That  nothing  she  can  hear, 
Save  the  clink  of  her  happy  heart 

To  the  heart  of  the  engineer. 

Over  the  river  and  down  the  dell, 

Beside  the  running  stream, 
She  hears  the  sound  of  the  engine-bell, 

And  the  whistle's  madd'ning  scream. 


RHYMES  OF   THE   RAIL  231 

Clinkety-clink  ;  there  's  an  open  switch,  — 

Kind  angels,  hide  her  eyes  ! 
Clinkety-clink  :   they  're  in  the  ditch, 

Oh,  hear  the  moans  and  cries  ! 


Clinkety  clink,  and  down  the  track 

The  train  will  dash  to-day ; 
But  what  are  the  ribbons  of  white  and  black 

The  engine  wears  away? 
Clinkety-clink  !     Oh,  worlds  apart, 

The  fireman  hangs  his  head ; 
There  is  no  clink  in  the  maiden's  heart : 

The  engineer  is  dead. 


^ 


THE   ORIENT   EXPRESS 

A    BOLD  Bulgarian  shepherd-boy,  who  looked 

so  like  a  sheep, 

So  gentle,  yet  so  sportive  in  his  showy  shep 
herd's  dress, 
Lay  down  upon  the  railroad  track  and  played  he 

was  asleep, 

To  fool  the  engine-driver  on  the  Orient  Ex 
press. 

The  driver,  who  disdained  to  slay  the  ram  upon 

the  rail, 
Put  on  the  brakes,  reversed  the  wheels,  and 

turned  his  face  away. 
The  stoker  stood  beside  him,  for  it  seemed  his 

heart  would  fail, 

Whereat   the    shepherd-boy   stood   up,    and 
laughed,  and  ran  away. 

Then  came  the  Irish  section  Boss,  the  day  the 

train  came  back, 

And  poured  about  a  barrel  o'  tar  between  the 
ties  that  day ; 


RHYMES   OF   THE   RAIL  233 

So,  when  the  shepherd-boy  lay  down,  the  tar 

upon  the  track 

Trick'd   through  the  whiskers   of  his  robe, 
and  held  him  where  he  lay. 

The  driver  could  not  hear  the  cry  that  swept  the 

right  of  way,  — 
The    death-cry  of  the    shepherd,  —  and  his 

soul  was  filled  with  mirth. 
He  opened  up  the  throttle-valve,  and  turned  his 

face  away : 

The  train  bore  down  upon  the  boy,  and  swept 
him  from  'he  earth. 


THE   FELLOWS  UP   AHEAD 

T7ORTY  miles  an  hour  when  you  're  sailing 

through  the  air, 
When  you  read  the  daily  papers  in  a  soft  reclin- 

ing-chair  ; 
Forty  miles  an  hour  when  you  slumber  in  your 

bed: 
Do  you  ever  give  a  thought  to  the  poor  fellows 

up  ahead? 

When   the  road  is  rough  and  saggy,  and  the 

snow,  and  sleet,  and  rain 
Falls,  and  freezes  on  the  headlight,  while  their 

eager  eyes  they  strain 
Just  to  catch  a  little  glimmer  of  the  trail  the 

wheels  must  tread, 
While  the  storm  beats  on  the  faces  of  the  fellows 

up  ahead  ; 

When  the  lightning  leaps  and  flashes  through 
the  spires  and  splintered  crags, 


RHYMES  OF   THE   RAIL  235 

And  the  engine  shrieks  and  dashes  o'er  the  hills 
and  through  the  sags, 

When  in  secret  with  your  conscience,  your  even 
ing  prayers  you  've  said,  — 

Make  a  little  requisition  for  the  fellows  up 
ahead. 


AN  OLD  STORY 


/TSHIS  morning  I  read  an  old  story, — 

I  'd  read  it  before,  long  ago ; 
'T  was  one  of  those  painfully  hoary, 
But  touching  old  chestnuts,  you  know. 

I  knew  when  I  read  the  first  stanza, 

When  the  "  mad  train  was  dashing  along," 

And  the  passengers  "  peered  from  the  windows," 
I  knew  then  that  something  was  wrong. 

When  the  mile-posts,  a  million  a  minute, 

Were  flitting  and  fluttering  by, 
I  knew  that  our  poet  was  in  it, 

I  knew  he  was  going  to  lie. 

When  the  stoker  said,  "  Stay  at  your  post,  Jack," 
And  the  sun  sank  away  in  the  west ; 

When  "a  grim  face  appeared  on  the  pilot." 
I  anticipated  the  rest. 


RHYMES    OF   THE  RAIL  237 

Then  the  glad  mother  rolled  in  the  rag-weeds, 
"  Me  boy,  oh,  me  baby  !  "  she  cried, 

And  the  train  went  away  in  the  twilight,  — 
And  the  creative  poet  had  lied. 


DEAD 

"  IpvEAD  !  my  queen,"  said  the  engineer, 
^^^      And  something  stole  silently  over  his 
face, 

And  left  in  its  travels  the  trace  of  a  tear. 

"  Dead  !  "  he  said,  bending  over  her  bier ; 
"  Dead  !  and  the  world  is  an  empty  place. 


I 

te  Only  this  morning  she  bounded  away, 
Radiant,  beautiful,  tossing  the  snow, 

Brushing  the  drifts  from  her  path  away ; 

It  seemed  so  selfish  in  me  to  stay, 

And  slumber  and  say  that  I  could  n't  go. 


"  Dead  !  and  oh,  such  a  little  while 

Ago  so  bright ; "  and  he  bowed  his  head, 
And  his  face  wore  a  sort  of  a  bitter  smile, 
As  he  leaned  o'er  the  wreck  in  the  old  scrap 

pile 

And   murmured :    "  My   little    McQueen    is 
dead  !  " 


THE  COUNTRY  EDITOR 

'"PHE  dear  good  country  editor  sits  in  his 
dingy  den, 

And  writes  of  needed  railroad  laws  for  the  ben 
efit  of  men 

Who  owe  six  years'  subscription  to  his  patent 
inside  sheet, 

Who  shun  the  starving  scribbler  when  they  see 
him  on  the  street ; 

Who  sing  their  psalms  in  Sunday-school  with 
accent  soft  as  silk, 

Who  mingle  saw-dust  with  their  bran,  and  water 
with  their  milk ; 

"What  time's  the  2.10  train  depart,"  the  edi 
tor  inquires, 

Remembering  that  on  New  Year's  eve  his  annual 
expires. 

He  dons  his  silken  bell-top  tile,  and  takes  him 

to  the  town ; 
He   tints  the  city   for    a   while,   and    then    he 

journeys  down 


240  TALES   OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Among  the  great  monopolies  whose  slaves  op 
press  the  poor, 

And  with  a  gall  immaculate  he  pauses  at  the 
door. 

His  faith  now  seems  to  falter,  there  's  moisture 

in  his  eye ; 
But  with  a  conscience  ballasted  with  the  Rock 

that 's  in  the  Rye, 

He  enters  and  announces,  as  chipper  as  a  lass, 
"  I  'm  Boils,  the  Blue   Creek  Blubber  man,  — 

just  please  renew  my  pass." 


STANDING  HIS   HAND 


A    STEER  stood  on  the  railroad  track, 
**     Whence  all  but  him  had  fled ; 
The  flames  from  out  the  engine  stack 
Shone  round  his  curly  head. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 
And  held  the  right  of  way,  — 

A  beast  of  royal  Durham  blood, 
A  terra-cotta  bay. 

"  Ring  off,  ring  off,"  the  driver  cried, 

"  You  offspring  of  a  gun ;  " 
And  but  the  bounding  wheels  replied, 

And  fast  the  train  rolled  on. 

The  train  rolled  on,  —  he  would  not  go 
And  join  the  common^erd ; 

The  farmer  heard  the  steam-cars  blow, 
The  while  the  steer  demurred. 
16 


242  TALES  OF  AN  ENGINEER 

Then  came  the  train  at  sixty  miles. 

The  steer,  oh,  where  's  he  gone  ? 
Ask  of  the  section  boss,  who  smiles, 

And  sips  his  beef  bouillon. 


THE   OLD   ENGINEER 

T  T  7  HEN  years  after  years  are  gone  and  for 
gotten  ; 

When  soft  silvery  ringlets  your  temples  adorn, 
And  fall  round  your  forehead  like  fragments  of 

cotton ; 

When  the  last  breath  of  youth's  scented  sum 
mer  is  gone,  — 

Keep  this  unpretentious  poetic  epistle  j 

'Twill  bring  back  the  mem'ry  of  days  that 
were  dear; 

Think  of  me  kindly,  then,  list  for  my  whistle, 
And  say,  "  'Tis  my  friend  the  old  engineer." 


WHEN  YOU   ARE  GONE 
To    S.  T.  S. 

T  T  OW  strange  the  place  will  seem 

When  you  are  gone ; 
When,  doubting  my  ability  to  hide 

My  sincere  sorrow,  gazing  on 
The  face  of  your  successor,  I  shall  chide 

Me  for  the  little  good  I  've  done,  — 

When  you  are  gone. 

Think  not  that  I  engage 

Your  manly  mind 
With  worthless  words  and  idle  flattery ; 

I  'd  only  have  you  know  you  leave  behind 
A  faithful  friend,  whose  swerveless  constancy, 

Esteem  and  loyalty  live  on 

When  you  are  gone. 


LOCH   IVANHOE 

T  T  P  near  the  mountain's  craggy  crest, 

The  mighty  moguls,  strong  and  proud,  — 
The  snow-drifts  beating  'gainst  their  breast,  — 

With  pointed  pilots  pierce  the  cloud. 
High  mountains,  seeming  little  hills, 

Emboss  the  spreading  plain  below, 
And  rivers  look  like  laughing  rills 

As  down  the  distant  vale  they  flow. 

Here  in  a  weird  cold  wintry  grave, 

Wrapped  in  a  marble  shroud  of  snow, 
With  not  a  ripple,  not  a  wave, 

Calmly  sleeps  Loch  Ivanhoe. 
But  with  the  coming  of  the  spring 

The  little  flowers  will  bud  and  blow, 
And  gladsome  songs  the  birds  will  sing 

Along  the  banks  of  Ivanhoe. 


